CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There are times and seasons which seem to be full of happenings,

followed by long stretches that have only the character of transition

from the former stage to something that is to come. Weeks and months fly

by us; we do not realize that they are here before they are gone, there

is so little to mark any day from its fellow. Yet we lay too much stress

on the power of separate and peculiar events to shape the current of our

lives, and do not take into account that drama which never ceases to be

acted, which knows no pause nor interim, and which takes place within

ourselves.

It was April once more before Dosia Linden came North again, after

extending months, in no day of which had her stay seemed anything but

temporary—a condition to be ended next week or the week after at

farthest. Her father’s illness turned out to be a lingering one, taking

every last ounce of strength from his wife and his daughter; and after

his death the little stepmother had collapsed for a while, with only

Dosia to take the helm. Dosia had worked early and late, nursing,

looking after the children, cooking, sewing, and later on, when sickness

and death had taken nearly all the means of livelihood, trying to earn

money for the immediate needs by teaching the scales to some of the

temporary tribe at the hotel—an existence in which self was submerged

in loving care for those who clung to her, and to cling to Dosia was

always to receive from her. Sleep was the goal of the day, and too much

of a luxury to have any of its precious moments wasted in wakeful

dreaming; besides, there was nothing to dream about any more. But when

she crept into her low bed she turned away from the moonlight, because

there are times, when one is young, when moonlight is very hard to bear.

The little family, bewildered and exhausted, had come to the end of its

resources, when Mrs. Linden’s brother in San Francisco offered her and

her children a home with him—an offer which, naturally, did not include

Dosia. She was very glad for them, but, after all, though she had worked

so hard for them, they were not to belong to her for her very own. The

aunt whose generosity had given her the money for her musical education

had also died, leaving a small sum in trust for the girl; it was that

which furnished her with means when she went once more to stay at the

Alexanders’. Justin himself had written to see if she could come.

There was another baby now, a couple of months old, and Lois needed her.

No fairy-story maiden this, going out to seek her fortune, who took an

uneventful train journey this time—only a very tired girl, worn with

work and worn with the sorrow of parting, yet thankful to lean her head

against the back of the car-seat and feel the burden of anxiety and care

slip from her for a little while.

Hard work alone is not ennobling, but drudgery for those whom we love

may have its uplifting trend. Dosia was pale and thin, the blue veins on

her temples showed more plainly, her face was no longer the typical

white page, unwritten upon; that first freshness of youth and

inexperience had gone. Dosia had lived. Young as she was, she had tasted

of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil; she had known suffering,

she had faced shame and disappointment and—truth; yes, through

everything she had faced that—taken herself to account, probed,

condemned, renounced. What she had lost in youthfulness she had gained

in character. She had an innocent nobility of expression that came from

a light within, as of one ready to answer unwaveringly wherever she

might be called. Yet something in her soft eyes at times trembled into

being, indescribably gentle, intolerably sweet—the soul of that Dosia

who was made to be loved.

If she had changed since that first journeying a year and a half ago, so

had the conditions changed in the household to which she went. Justin

had had the not unusual experience of the business man who has achieved

what he has set out to achieve without the expected result; in the

silting-pan which holds success some of the gold mysteriously drops

through. The Typometer Company was doing a very large business,

quadrupled since the day of its inception. The building was hardly big

enough now to hold the offices and manufacturing plant; the force had

been greatly increased, and an additional floor for storage had been

hired next door. The typometer had absorbed the output of two small

rival companies, one out West and one in a neighboring town—both glad,

in view of a losing game, to make terms with the successful arbiter.

Where one person used a typometer three years ago, it was in request by

fifty people now, for many things—for many more, indeed, than had been

thought of at first; every week plans in special adjustments were made

to fit the machine for different purposes. It was undoubtedly not only a

success in itself, but was destined to fit into more and more of the

needs of the working world as a standard product.

Orders came in from all parts of the globe. Justin, as he hurried over

to his office or held important consultations with the men who wanted to

see him, was awarded the respect given to the head of a large and

successful concern. He was marked as a rising man. Yet, in spite of all

this real accomplishment of the Typometer Company, the net profits had

always fallen short of the mark set for them; the company was in

constant and growing need of money.

Prices of everything to do with manufacturing had increased—prices of

copper and steel, of machinery, of wages, in addition to the larger

number of hands employed, and the rent of the additional floor. It was

always necessary for one’s peace of mind to go back to the value of the

material stock and the assets to be counted on in the future. The steady

branching out of the business in every direction was proof of the fact

that if it did not it must retrench; and to retrench meant fewer orders,

fewer opportunities—financial suicide.

It was the powerful shibboleth of the world of trade that one must be

seen to be doing business; only so could the doors of credit be opened.

If Cater came in with him now, as seemed at last to be expected, the

doors must open farther. No matter how one tries to see all around the

consequences of any change, any undertaking, there always arise minor

consequences which from their very nature must be unforeseen, and yet

which may turn out to be the really powerful factors in the main issue;

unimportant genii that, let out of their bottles, swell immeasurably.

The consequences of the fire, small as it was, seemed never-ending. The

defective bars had proved a disastrous supply for the machine, in more

ways than one.

Left by the Leverich-Martin combination to work his own retrieval, he

had borrowed the ten thousand from Lewiston, and had used part of the

money to pay the interest to the others; and later, in the flush of

reinstatement, he had borrowed another ten thousand from Leverich, a

loan to be called by him at any time. Lewiston’s loan had seemed easy of

repayment at six months, Justin knew when the money was coming in, but

he had been obliged, after all, to anticipate, and get his bills

discounted before they came due for other purposes, often paying huge

tribute for the service. Lewiston had renewed the note for sixty days,

and then for sixty more, but with the proviso that this was the last

extension.

In short, the whole process of competently keeping afloat had been gone

through, with a definite aim of accomplishment; Cater’s cooperation,

about which he had been so slow, would infuse new blood into the

business. It was maddening at times to have so many good uses for money

and to be unable to command it at the crucial moment. Justin had

approached Eugene Larue on that past Sunday afternoon, only to find him

cautiously negative where once he had seemed friendlily suggesting.

Such a process, to be successful, depends on the power of the man behind

it, which must not only comprehend and direct the larger issues, but

must be able to carry along smoothly all the easily entangling threads

of detail; he must not only have a capable brain, but he must have the

untiring nervous energy that can “hold out” through any crisis. Such men

may go to pieces after incredible effort, but they are on the way to

success first. Danger only quickens the sure leap to safety.

Justin, preëminently clear-headed, had been conscious lately of two

phases—one an almost preternatural illumination of intellect, and the

other a sort of brain-inertia, more soul- and body-fatiguing than any

pain. There were seasons when he was obliged to think when he could

instead of when he would. He looked grave, alert, competent, but

underneath this demeanor there went an unceasing effort of computation

and reckoning to which the computation and reckoning on the first night

of his agreement with Leverich was as a child’s play with toy bricks is

to the building of an edifice of stone.

The large responsibilities now incurred clashed grotesquely with the

daily need of money at home for petty uses; a condition of affairs which

often happens at the birth of a child, when the household is at loose

ends, and the expenses are necessarily greater in every direction at the

time when it seems most imperative to limit them. Justin seemed never to

have enough “change” in his pockets, no matter how much he brought home.

In some men the business faculties become more and more self-sufficing

when there is no other passion to divide them—the nature grows all one

way; and there are others who seem independent, yet who are always as

dependent as children on the unnoticed, sustaining help of affection,

the love that makes the home a refuge from the provoking of all

men—that unreasonably, and at all times, hotly champions the cause of

the beloved against the world. No help-giving virtue had gone out from

this household in the last year; it had all been a dead lift.

Justin had never spoken of his affairs to Lois since that Sunday when

she had said that she hated them. When she had asked for money, she had

always added the proviso, “if he could afford it,” and accepted the fact

either way without comment. He was, as time went on, more and more

affectionately solicitous for her welfare, even if he was, as she keenly

felt, less personally loving.

If she went to bed early in the evening, he took that opportunity to go

out; and if she stayed up, he remained at home and went to sleep on the

lounge; and the little touch that binds divergence with the inner thread

of sympathy was lacking.

Yet, strange as it might seem, while she consciously suffered far the

most, his loss was mysteriously the greater; the fire of love of which

she was by right high priestess still burned secretly for her tending as

she cowered over the embers on the hearthstone, though he was cold and

chill for lack of that vital warmth.

There were moments when she felt that she could die gladly for him, but

always for that glory of self-triumphing in the end. Then that which

seemed as if it could never change began to change.

Before the child was born, and now since that, there was a difference.

Men and women who suffer most from imaginary wrongs may become sane and

heroic in times of real danger. Lois, noble, sweet, and brave,

thoughtful for Zaidee and Hedge and Justin even while she trembled,

excited reverence and a deep and anxious tenderness in her husband.

Then, afterwards, he was proud of his second son. When Justin came in at

the end of each day and sat down by his wife’s bedside, holding her

blue-veined hand while she smiled peacefully at him, there was a sweet,

sufficing pleasure about those few minutes, singularly soothing, though

the interim had no relation to actual living, except in the fact that

one anxiety had been lifted. While the expectant birth of the child had

been to her, as it is to almost every woman, a separate and distinct

calamitous illness to which she looked forward as one might look forward

to being taken with typhoid or diphtheria, he considered it as a

manifestation of nature, not in itself dangerous, and her fear that of a

child, to be soothed by reason.

Still, he had had his moments of a reluctant, twinging fear. One cause

for disquieting thought was removed. Now the helplessness of this little

family, for whom he was the provider, tugged at a swelling heart.

As he walked toward his office to-day somewhat later than was his wont,

he diverged from his usual custom—instead of entering his own doorway,

he went across the street to Cater’s after a moment’s hesitation. Now

that Cater’s cooperation was at the consummating point, it was wiser not

to run the risk of its sagging back. Leverich and Martin were keenly for

its success, Justin’s credit would rise immeasurably with it. The

Typometer Company had absorbed the minor machines with so little trouble

that the unabsorbability of the timoscript had seemed an unnecessary

stumbling block. Time and time again Justin had sought Cater with

tabulated figures and unanswerable arguments. The combination, he firmly

believed, would be highly beneficial for both—the field was, in its

way, too narrow to be divided with the highest profit; together they

could command the trade.

Cater was opposed to all combinations as trusts,—a word against which

he was principled, with obstinate refusal to differentiate as to kind,

quality, or intent. Like many men who are given to a far-seeing

philosophy in speech, he was narrow-mindedly cautious when it came to

action, apt to be suspicious in the wrong place, and requiring to be

continually reassured about conditions which seemed the very a-b-c of

commerce. The rivalry between the two firms had been apparently

good-natured, yet a little of the sharp edge of competition had shown

signs of cutting through the bond.

The typometer had put its prices down, and the timoscript had cut under;

then the typometer had gone as low as was wise, and the timoscript had

begun to weaken in its defenses.

Cater was already at work at a big desk as Justin entered, but rose to

shake hands. There was a look of melancholy in his eyes, in spite of his

smile of greeting.

“Anything wrong with you?” asked Justin, instinctively noticing the look

rather than the smile.

“No,” said Cater. He hooked his legs under his chair, and leaned back,

the light from the high unshaded window striking full on his lean yellow

countenance. “No, there’s nothing wrong. Got some things off my mind,

things that have been bothering me for a long time, and I reckon I don’t

feel quite easy without ’em.”

“I think you’re very lucky,” said Justin. The light from the high window

fell on his face, too—on his brown hair, turning a little gray at the

temples, on the set lines of his face, in which his eyes, keen and blue,

looked intently at his friend. He was well dressed; the foot that was

crossed over his knee was excellently shod.

Cater shifted a little in his seat. “Well, I don’t know. My experience

is some different from the usual run, I reckon; I never had any big

streak of luck that it didn’t get back at me afterwards. There was my

marriage—I know it ain’t the thing to talk about your marriage, but you

do sometimes. My wife’s a fine woman,—yes, sir, I was mighty lucky to

get her,—but I didn’t know how to live up to her family. It’s been

that-a-way all my life. Sure’s I get to ringin’ the bells, the floorin’

caves in under me.”

“We’ll see that the flooring holds, now that you’re coming in with us,”

said Justin good-naturedly. “I’ve got some propositions to put up to you

to-day.”

Cater shook his head. “There’s no use of your putting up any

propositions. I’ve been drawin’ on my well of thought so hard lately

that I reckon you could hear the pumps workin’ plumb across the street.

I’ve been cipherin’ down to the fact that I can’t go it alone, any

more’n you,—there we agree; hold on, now!—but I can’t combine.”

“You can’t!” cried Justin, with unusual violence. “Why not?”

“Well, you know my feelin’s about trusts, and—I like you, Mr.

Alexander, you know that, mighty well, but I balk at your backin’. I

don’t believe in it. It’ll fail when you count on it most, it’ll cramp

on you merciless if you come short of its expectations. Leverich isn’t

so bad, but Martin cramps a hold of him, and I can’t stand Martin havin’

a finger in any concern _I_ have a hold of.”

“He’s clever enough to make what he touches pay,” said Justin.

Cater’s eyebrows contracted. “You say he’s clever because he’s

tricky—because he’s sharp. He isn’t clever enough to make money

honestly, he isn’t big enough. You and me, we’re honest, or try to be,

but we haven’t the brain to give every man his just due, and get ahead,

too. It’s the greatest game there is, but you got to be a genius to play

it! You and me, we can’t do it; we ain’t got the brain and we ain’t got

the nerve; _I_ haven’t. You’ve just ever-lastingly got to do the best

for yourself if you’ve got a family; the best _as_ you see it.”

“What’s all this leading up to? What change have you been making,

Cater?” asked Justin, with stern abruptness.

“I’ve given the agency of the machine to Hardanger.”

“Hardanger!” Justin’s face flushed momentarily, then became set and

expressionless. To stand out on abstract questions of honor, and then

tacitly break all faith by going in with Hardanger!

“I shut down on part of my plant when I began figuring on this change,”

continued Cater. “I’ve been getting the steel fittin’s on contract from

Benschoten again, as I did at first; it’ll come cheaper in the end.

Gives us a pretty big stock to start off with. I was sorry—I was sorry

to have to turn off a dozen men, but what you going to do? I’ve got to

cut down on the manufacturing as close as I can now.”

“I suppose so.”

“I wanted to tell you the first one,” said Cater.

“Well, I congratulate you,” said Justin formally, rising.

“This isn’t going to make any difference in the friendship between me

and you, Mr. Alexander? I’ve thought a powerful lot of your friendship.

If I’d ’a’ seen any way to have come in with you, I’d ’a’ done it. But

business ain’t going to interfere between two such good friends as we

are!”

“Why, no,” said Justin, with the conventional answer to an appeal which

still pitifully claims for truth that which it has made false. The

handshake that followed was one in which all their friendship seemed to

dissolve and change its character, hardening into ice.

_Hardanger!_

Hardanger & Co. represented one of the greatest factors in the trade of

two hemispheres. To say that a thing was taken up by Hardanger & Co.

meant its success—they took nothing that was not likely to succeed;

they _made_ it succeed—for them. Their agents in all parts of the known

world had easy access to firms and to opportunities hard to be reached

by those of lesser credit. Their reputation was unassailed; they kept

scrupulously to the terms agreed upon. The only bar to putting an

article into their hands was the fact that their terms—except in the

case of certain standard articles which they were obliged to

have—embraced nearly all the profits, only the very narrowest margins

coming to the original owners. Everything had to be figured down, and

still further and further down, by those owners, to make that margin

possible. It was cut-throat all the way through—a policy that made for

the rottenness of trade.

Justin and Leverich had once made tentative investigations as to

Hardanger, with the conclusion that there was far more money outside,

even if one must go a little more slowly. It was better to go a little

more slowly, for the sake of getting so much more out of it in the end.

Hardanger was to be kept as a last resort, if everything else failed.

Cater had expressed himself as feeling the same way; that was the

understanding between them. But now? Backed by this powerful agency, the

timoscript assumed disquieting proportions. In the distance, a time not

so very far distant either, Justin could see himself squeezed to the

wall, the output of his factory bought up by Hardanger for the price of

old iron—forced into it, whether he would or no. Why had he been so

short-sighted? Why hadn’t he made terms himself sooner? But Cater had

been a fool to give in to those terms when, by combining, they could

have swung trade between them to their own measure. Then Hardanger might

have been obliged to seek _them_, to take their price!—Hardanger, who

could afford to laugh at his pretensions now!

He thought of Cater without malice—with, instead, a shrewd, kind

philosophy, a sad, clear-visioned impulse of pity mixed with his wonder.

So that was the way a man was caught stumbling between the meshes,

blinded, dulled, unconsciously maimed of honor, while still feeling

himself erect and honest-eyed! There had been no written agreement

between them that either should consult the other before seeking

Hardanger; but some promises should be all the stronger for not being

written.

This thing _couldn’t_ happen; in some way, he must get his foot inside

the door, so that it couldn’t shut on him. There was that note of

Lewiston’s, due in thirty days—no, twenty-five now. What about that?

Later in the day, after he had been seeing drayful after drayful of

boxes leave the factory opposite, Bullen, the foreman, came into the

office with some estimates, pointing out the figures with a small strip

of steel tubing held absently in his fingers.

While the clerks were all deferential, and those of foreign birth

obsequious, Bullen had an air that was more than sturdily

independent—the air and the eye of the skilled mechanic. On his own

ground he was master, and Justin, with a smile, deferred to him. But

Justin broke into Bullen’s calculations abruptly, after a while, to ask:

“What’s that you’ve got there? It looks like one of those bars that

nearly smashed us.”

“You’ve got a good eye, sir,” said Bullen approvingly. “A year and a

half ago you’d not have seen any difference between one bit of steel and

another. But there’s one thing I didn’t see about it myself until

Venly—he’s a new man we’ve taken on—pointed it out to me. He came

across a case of these to-day we’d thrown out in the waste-heap. We

thought our machine had jarred them out of shape, because they were a

fraction off size; well, so they were. But Venly he spotted them in a

minute, when he was out there, and he asked me if they weren’t from the

Benschoten factory—he was turned off from there last week, they’re

cutting down the force; they always do, come spring. He said they looked

like part of a bum lot that had flaws in them. He got the

magnifying-glass and showed me, and, sure enough, ’twas right he was! He

says they’ve got piles of them they’ve been workin’ off on the trade at

a cut price. Venly he said he didn’t have any stomach for a skin game

like that.”

“That’s a pretty ruinous way to do business, isn’t it?” asked Justin.

“Oh, they’re going to sell out in July, so they don’t care. I pity

anyone that’s counting on any sort of machine that’s got these in ’em.

Would you take the glass and look for yourself, sir? Every one of ’em is

flawed!”