The private office was dim in the gray light of a March dusk; through
the open window a chilly wind came blowing, with a fine drizzle of rain.
Wickham Hackett sat at his desk, in a circle of light from the shaded
lamp that illumined sharply his fine, haggard face, and made the graying
hair on his temples glisten like silver. He had the look of some worn
and ascetic recluse, sitting there in the chill and shadowy room.
He was making notes for his address to the board of directors. He knew
very well that he could do this far better in the morning, that he was
too tired now for any efficient work; but he was too tired to think of
resting. The strain of his day had left him horribly tense, filled with
an almost unbearable sense of exasperation and urgency.
His stenographer came to the open door.
“Will you want me any longer, Mr. Hackett?” she asked.
He was silent for a moment, struggling gallantly against his savage
mood. He wanted to shout at her, to swear at her, to tell her that it
was her business to stay as long as he did, and that she was a little
fool, with her high heels and her powdered nose; but he held his tongue,
turned away his head so that he need not see her, and answered mildly:
“No. You can go, Miss Johnson.”
After she had gone, he rose and went to the window. The pavement far
below was glistening, the lights were blurred. The rain blew in on him,
cold and fine. He liked the feel of it. He closed his eyes and drew a
deep breath.
“By Heaven, I won’t quit!” he said to himself. “I won’t give in! I won’t
go home until I’ve got this thing straight in my mind, if I stay here
all night!”
A great exultation seized him, a sense of power and energy. It was often
like this. He would reach what would seem to be the very limit of his
endurance, but if he held on, and would not rest, would not yield, this
curious new vigor would come to him, this feeling of triumph, as if he
had passed the boundary of normal endeavor and had become superhuman. He
would pay for this later, in a long night of sleeplessness, but it was
worth it.
He saw before him now, with perfect clarity, just the words he would use
in his address. He drew back from the window, in a hurry to set them
down, and as he turned he saw a tall figure standing near his desk. The
shock made him dizzy for a moment.
“_What_--” he began furiously, and stopped, staring. “Oh, it’s you, is
it, Charley?” he said.
“It’s me,” replied the other cheerfully. “Knocked at the outer door and
nobody answered, so I walked in. Sorry I startled you.”
“Nerves, I suppose,” murmured Wickham Hackett. “I’m very tired. Sit
down, man. I have something to tell you.”
But the other remained standing. He was a tall man, lean and sunburned,
with a handsome, arrogant face and a swaggering air. He seemed like a
man from another age, who should have worn a sword at his side. An
adventurer, surely, but down on his luck now, with a frayed and
threadbare overcoat, a shabby hat, and deep lines about his gray eyes.
“Sit down, man!” Wickham Hackett repeated impatiently. “Here, have a
smoke. I have some news for you, Charley.”
“Can’t refuse!” said Charles Hackett, and he sat down, with one long leg
over the arm of the chair. “That’s good!” he added, at the first puff of
the cigar.
Wickham Hackett looked down at the papers on his desk, because the sight
of this battered rover stirred him almost intolerably. He could remember
such a different Charles, years and years ago--such a careless, joyous,
and triumphant Charles; and to see him now, like this--
The returned wanderer had come into his brother’s office two weeks ago,
in his old casual way, as if the twelve years of his absence were
nothing at all.
“Touch of fever,” he had said. “The doctors tell me I can’t live in a
tropical climate any more, so I’ve come home. Do you think you can find
me some sort of a job, Wick? There’s not a damned thing I can do that’s
any use; but you’re such a big fellow now, you might be able to find me
something, eh?”
“I’ll find you a job,” Wickham Hackett had promised.
Then Charley had begun asking about old friends. This one was dead, that
one gone away; all the inevitable vicissitudes of twelve years were
starkly revealed. It had been horrible, as if Charles were a ghost come
back to a world that had long forgotten him.
“Well, yes, of course--it’s natural,” he had said. “The life there, in
the West Indies--quite different, you know. I like it.”
“That’s hard luck, Charley,” Wickham Hackett had said.
“No,” Charles had said. “No luck about it, Wick. I had it coming to me.
I’ve lived hard, and now I’ve got to pay. I’m forty, my health is
broken, and I haven’t a damned cent. That’s not bad luck, Wick--it’s bad
management;” and he had smiled, his teeth very white against his
sunburned face.
That was the worst of it, to Wickham Hackett’s thinking--that incurable
carelessness and swagger of his brother’s. He was not sobered or
steadied by whatever misfortunes had befallen him. He still laughed, as
a man of another day might have laughed, with his back to the wall and
nothing left him but the sword in his hand. In a way, it was admirable,
but it was hard to witness that flashing smile, that debonair
manner--with the threadbare overcoat and the shabby hat!
Wickham had taken his brother home with him.
“But you’re married now,” Charles had protested. “Perhaps your wife--”
“She’ll be glad to see you,” Wickham had answered.
He had not felt at all sure of that, but one thing he did know--whether
Madeline was glad or sorry to see Charles, she would receive him kindly
and graciously.
“I can always count on her,” Wickham had thought.
That was the best thing in his life, the feeling he had about Madeline.
It was not the thing people usually speak of as “being in love.” In his
early youth he had known what that was. He had been in love, miserably,
bitterly, hotly in love, and he had come out of it, not unscarred; but
this, his feeling for Madeline, was different. This was a love of
dignity and utter trust. He honored her above all women on earth, and he
profoundly admired her reserved beauty. He gave her everything freely,
and put his very soul into her keeping.
He never told her things like that. In the course of his first
disastrous love affair he had done plenty of talking, and he wished
never to use those words again. He had proved to Madeline, in their five
years of life together, what he thought of her, how he valued her, and
of course she would understand.
She had been quite as kind and gracious to Charley as her husband had
expected. She had looked after the poor fellow’s comfort, had made him
feel at ease and happy. It had been good to see him so happy.
“And now,” thought Wickham, “his troubles are pretty well over. He’ll be
all right.” Aloud he said: “Yes, I have news for you, Charley. I’ve--”
“Hold on a minute!” said Charles Hackett. “I have some news myself,
Wick. Wait! Where is it? Here!”
He drew an envelope from his breast pocket, took out the letter inside,
and spread it out on his knee.
“From a fellow I knew down in Nicaragua,” he observed. “He’s got a deal
on there. Wants me to come in with him. Where is it? Here! ‘Your
experience will be better than capital,’ he says. ‘I’ll put up the money
and you’ll do the work.’ He says--”
“What are you talking about?” Wickham interrupted impatiently. “You
can’t go down there. Now look here, Charley! I saw Carrick again to-day,
and he’s willing to take you in there. It’s a remarkable opportunity.”
“Yes, but I--”
“Don’t belittle yourself!” said Wickham. “You’ve got certain qualities
that ’ll be mighty useful to him. You’ve got brains, Charley--although
you don’t like to use ’em. I’ve been after Carrick for the last ten
days, and at last I’ve made him see the point. He wants to meet you
to-morrow, and then we’ll make a definite arrangement.”
“Yes, but--” objected Charley. “I see; but--I think this Nicaragua job
would suit me better, Wick.”
“Don’t be such a fool!” cried Wickham. “You know damned well that that
climate would kill you in a year; and here I’m offering you a chance any
other man would give his ears for!”
“Yes, I know,” said Charles. “Very good of you, Wick. I appreciate it;
but--”
Wickham sprang to his feet, shaken with a terrible anger.
“You fool!” he shouted. “After I’ve--” He stopped suddenly, and stood
there visibly making a tremendous effort at self-control; and he won it.
“Sorry!” he said. “The truth is, I’m a bit tired. We won’t talk any more
about it now, eh? We’ll go along home, and after dinner--”
“Yes,” said Charles; “but the thing is, Wick, I was thinking of having
dinner in town to-night. You see, there’s a boat to-morrow--”
“No, you don’t!” said Wickham. “You’re not going to do any such foolish
and suicidal thing as that until we’ve had a talk.”
“Yes, but--”
“Charley,” said the other, “look here--I’m pretty tired. I can’t talk to
you properly now, and I want to. I’m not demonstrative, and never was.
Perhaps I haven’t let you see how much”--he paused, looking down at his
desk--“how much I have your welfare at heart,” he ended stiffly.
“Wick, of course I’ve seen,” replied Charles, profoundly touched. “I’ve
appreciated everything; only you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s
ear. I’m a born tramp, Wick. I’d really _better_ go.”
“For the Lord’s sake, shut up!” said Wickham, half laughing. “I can’t
talk to you until after dinner. Come along now and we’ll just make the
five forty.”