Hannibal Wharton arrived in New York at five o'clock and went directly
to Merkle's bank. At eight o'clock Jarvis Hammon died. During the
afternoon and evening other financiers, summoned hurriedly from New
England shores and Adirondack camps, were busied in preparations for
the struggle they expected on the morrow. During the closing hours of
the market prices had slumped to an alarming degree; a terrific raid on
metal stocks had begun, and conditions were ripe for a panic.
Hammon had bulked large in the steel world, and his position in circles
of high finance had become prominent; but alive he could never have
worked one-half the havoc caused by his sudden death. That persistent
rumor of suicide argued, in the public mind, the existence of serious
money troubles, and gave significance to the rumor that for some time
past had disturbed the Street. Hammon's enemies summoned their forces
for a crushing assault.
In this emergency Bob's father found himself the real head of those
vast enterprises in which he had been an associate, and until a late
hour that night he was forced to remain in consultation with men who
came and went with consternation written upon their faces.
The amazing transformation which followed the birth of the giant Steel
Trust had raised many men from well-to-do obscurity into prominence and
undreamed-of wealth. Since then the older members of the original
clique had withdrawn one by one from active affairs, and of the younger
men only Wharton and Hammon had remained. Equally these two had figured
in what was perhaps the most remarkable chapter of American financial
history. Both had been vigorous, self-made, practical men. But the
outcome had affected them quite differently.
Riches had turned Jarvis Hammon's mind into new channels; they had
opened strange pathways and projected him into a life foreign to his
early teachings. His duties had kept him in New York, while Wharton's
had held him in his old home. Hammon had become a great financier;
Wharton had remained the practical operating expert, and, owing to the
exactions of his position, he had become linked more closely than ever
to business detail. At the same time he had become more and more
unapproachable. Unlimited power had forced him into the peculiar
isolation of a chief executive; he had grown hard, suspicious,
arbitrary. Even to his son he had been for years a remote being.
It was not until the last conference had broken up, not until the last
forces had been disposed for the coming battle, that he spoke to Merkle
of Bob's marriage. Merkle told him what he knew, and the old man
listened silently. Then he drove to the Elegancia.
Bob and Lorelei had just returned from the theater, much, be it said,
against the bridegroom's wishes. Bob had been eager to begin the
celebration of his marriage in a fitting manner, and it had required
the shock of Hammon's death added to Lorelei's entreaties to dissuade
him from a night of hilarity. He was flushed with drink, and in
consequence more than a little resentful when she insisted upon
spending another night in the modest little home.
"Say! I'm not used to this kind of a place," he argued. "I'm not a
cave-dweller. It's a lovely flat--for a murder--but it's no place to
LIVE. And, besides, it doesn't look right for me to come to your house,
when all the hotels are gasping for my patronage. I never heard of such
a thing. Makes me feel like a rummy."
"Don't be silly," she told him. "We acted on impulse; we can't change
everything at a moment's notice. I couldn't bear a hotel just yet."
"But--people take trips when they get married."
"That is different. Are you--in a position to take me away to-night?"
With an eloquent gesture Bob turned his trousers pockets wrong side
out. "Not to-night, perhaps, but to-morrow."
"I can't quit the show without two weeks' notice."
"Two weeks?" He was aghast. "Two minutes. Two seconds. I won't have you
dodging around stage-doors. To-morrow you'll breeze in and tell my old
friend Regan you've quit. Just say, 'I quit'--that's notice enough."
"Bergman won't let me go; it wouldn't be right to ask him."
But Bob was insistent. "It pains me to pull the props out from under
the 'profession' and leave the drama flat, but matrimony was a
successful institution before the Circuit Theater was built, and a
husband has rights. I intend to cure you of the work habit. You must
learn to scorn it. Look at me. I'm an example of the unearned
increment. We'll kiss this dinky flat a fond farewell--it's impossible,
really--I refuse to share such a dark secret with you. To-morrow we
leave it for the third and last time. What d'you say to the sunny side
of the Ritz until we decide where we want to travel?"
"You don't want to leave New York, you know," she told him, soberly.
"You're offering to go because you think it's the proper thing to do
and because you don't know what else to suggest. But--I have to work."
"Ah! The family, eh? We'll retire 'em and put an end to this child
labor. Now, as for the trip--we've got to do SOMETHING: we can't
just--live. Where do you have your clothes made?"
Lorelei named several tailors of whom Bob had seldom heard.
"That won't do," he said, positively. "I'll get a list of the smartest
shops from Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire, and I want you to buy enough gowns
to last till we reach Paris--a couple dozen will do--then we'll fit out
properly. I'll bet you never went shopping--really shopping--did you?
and bought everything you saw?"
"Of course not. I never dreamed of such a spree."
"Well, that will be lesson number two. Can you ride?"
"Not well."
"Must know how to ride--that's number three, and very important. I'll
get you some horses when we return. We'll spend our mornings at
Durland's for a while, and I'll teach you to play polo, too. All the
girls are going in for it lately. You'll need an electric motor, I
suppose, for calling and shopping--they're making some stunning bodies
in that wicker effect. Now, what's your favorite jewel? I haven't had
time to get your ring yet--this whole day was upside down. Everything
had closed before I opened up, but to-morrow we'll paw through
Tiffany's stock, and you can choose what you like. I'm going to select
a black-opal set for you--they're the newest thing and the price is
scandalous." He paused, eying her curiously, then with a change of tone
inquired, "Say, are you in mourning for somebody?"
"Why, no."
"You don't seem to care for all these things I've bought."
Lorelei laughed spontaneously, for the first time during the long day.
"Of course I care. But--where is the money coming from? You haven't a
dollar."
"My dear, so long as the Western Union lasts you'll never see a wrinkle
on my brow. We'll begin by destroying everything you own--hats, gowns,
jewelry--then we'll start at the beginning."
Just then the apartment bell rang. Bob went to the door. He returned
with his father at his heels. Mr. Wharton tramped in grimly, nodded at
his daughter-in-law, who had risen at the first sound of his voice,
then ran his eyes swiftly over the surroundings.
"I hear you've made a fool of yourself again," he began, showing his
teeth in a faint smile. "Have you given up your apartment at the
Charlevoix?"
"Not yet," said Bob. "We're considering a suite at the Ritz for a few
days."
"Indeed. You're going back to the Charlevoix to-night."
Lorelei started. She had expected opposition, but was unprepared for
anything so blunt and business-like. "I think you and Bob can talk more
freely if I leave you alone," she said.
Hannibal Wharton replied shortly: "No, don't leave. I'll talk freer
with you here."
It appeared, however, that Robert stood in no awe of his father's
anger; he said lightly:
"They never come back, dad. I'm a regular married man. Lorelei is my
royal consort, my yoke-mate, my rib. We'll have to scratch the
Charlevoix."
This levity left the caller unmoved; to Lorelei he explained:
"I want no notoriety, so all we need talk about is terms. You'll fare
better by dealing directly with me than through lawyers--I'll fight a
lawsuit--so let's get down to business. You should realize, however,
that these settlements are never as large as they're advertised. I'll
pay you ten thousand dollars and stand the costs of the divorce
proceedings."
"You are making a mistake," she told him, quietly.
"I expected you to refuse, but ten thousand dollars is better than
nothing. Talk it over with your people. Now, Bob, come with me."
"Where?" demanded his son.
"Anywhere. You can't stay here."
"You're infallible in business, dad," Bob protested, "but where
sentiment is concerned you're a terrible failure."
"Not at all! Not at all!" Mr. Wharton exclaimed, irritably. "I know
real sentiment when I see it, and I'll foot the bill for this
counterfeit, but I'm too tired to argue."
Lorelei was standing very white and still; now she said, "Don't you
think you'd better go?"
The elder man laid aside his hat and gloves, then spoke with snarling
deliberation. "I'll go when I choose. No high and mighty airs with me,
if you please." After a curious scrutiny of them both he asked his son:
"You don't really imagine that she married you for anything except your
money, do you?"
"I flattered myself--" Bob began, stiffly.
"Bah! You're drunk."
"Moderately, perhaps--or let us say that I am in an unnaturally
argumentative mood. I take issue with you. You see, dad, I've been
crazy about Lorelei ever since I first saw her, and--"
"To be sure, that's quite natural. But why in hell did you MARRY her?
That wasn't necessary, was it?"
Lorelei uttered a sharp cry. Bob rose; his eyes were bright and hard.
Mr. Wharton merely arched his shaggy brows, inquiring quickly of the
bride: "What's the matter? I state the case correctly, do I not?"
"No!" gasped Lorelei.
"Let's talk plainly--"
"That's a bit too plain, even from you, dad," Bob cried, angrily.
"It's time for plain speaking. You got drunk, and she trapped you. I'm
here to get you out of the trap. It's a matter of money, isn't it?
Well, then, don't let's allow sentiment to creep in." Addressing
himself to Lorelei, he said: "You probably counted on five times the
sum I offer, but ten thousand dollars will buy a lot of clothes, and
the publicity won't hurt you professionally; it'll do you good. You
might even spend the winter in Europe and catch another victim. I
believe that's the amount Merkle offered you, isn't it?"
"Merkle? What are you talking about?" Bob demanded.
"Did Mr. Merkle tell you how and why he came to make that offer?" asked
Lorelei, indignantly.
"No. But he offered it, did he not?"
"Yes, and I refused it. Ask him why?"
"We don't seem to be getting along very well," Bob interposed. "Lorelie
is my wife and your daughter-in-law. What's more, I love her; so I
guess that ends the Reno chatter." He crossed to Lorelei's side and
encircled her with his arm. "There's no price-tag on this marriage,
dad, and you'll regret what you've said."
Wharton senior shrugged wearily. "You tell him, Miss; maybe he'll
believe you."
"Tell him what?" asked Lorelei.
"The truth, of course." He paused for a reply, and, receiving none,
broke out wrathfully: "Then I will. She's a grafter, Bob, and her whole
family are grafters. Now, let me finish. She makes her living in any
way she can; she smirks at you out of every catch-penny advertisement
along Broadway. She's 'The Chewing-Gum Girl' and 'The Petticoat Girl'
and 'The Bath-Tub Girl'--"
"There's nothing dishonest in that."
"Just a minute. I won't have my daughter's face grinning at me every
time I get into a street-car. I'd be the laughing-stock of the country.
It's legitimate, perhaps, but it's altogether too damned colorful for
me."
"Is that all you have against her?"
"Not by any means. She's notorious--"
"Newspaper talk!"
"Is it? She's made her living by bleeding men, by taking gifts and
renting herself out the way she did at Hammon's supper. Men don't
support show-girls from chivalrous motives. I had her family looked up,
and it didn't take two hours. Listen to this report." He extracted a
typewritten sheet from his bill-case, adjusted his glasses, and began
to read:
"Peter Knight: former residence Vale, New York. Held several minor
offices; sheriff for one term; involved in scandal over public works
and defeated for re-election. Reputation bad. Detailed record can be
had if necessary. Moved to this city 1911; clerk in Department of Water
Supply, Gas, and Electricity until injured by taxi-cab while
intoxicated. Believed to be crippled.
"James Knight, son. Reputation bad. Generally known as a loafer,
suspected of boosting for so-called 'wire-tappers' operating on upper
West Side last spring. Believed to have some connection with more than
one blackmailing scheme--details available. He figured in recent
scandal concerning well-known financier and actress. Of late employed
as steerer for Max Melcher's gambling-house, West Forty-sixth Street.
Broker living at Charlevoix Apartments reported to have lost large sums
through his efforts. No police record as yet.
"Mathilda Knight, wife of Peter--
"D'you want the rest?" Mr. Wharton inquired.
"No!" Lorelei gulped.
"'No police record as YET'--'Broker living at the Charlevoix
Apartments'--'Injured by a taxi-cab while intoxicated,'" quoted
Wharton. "Scandal, blackmail, graft. It's all here, Bob. And I hadn't
come to this girl's record. The report was made by one of our own men,
and it's incomplete, but I can have it elaborated. What do you say,
MRS. WHARTON? Is it true?"
Lorelei dropped her head. "Most of it, I dare say."
"Did you try to blackmail Merkle?"
"No."
"Your mother and your brother did."
She was silent.
"They tried to scare him into marrying you, did they not?"
"Hammon said something about that," ejaculated Bob, "but I don't
believe--"
Lorelei checked him. "It's quite true."
"Merkle said you had nothing to do with it personally," conscientiously
explained Mr. Wharton, "and I'm willing to take his word. But that's
neither here nor there." There was a moment of silence during which he
folded and replaced the report; then he shook his head, exclaiming,
"Second-hand goods, my boy!"
"That's a lie!" Lorelei's voice was like a whip.
Mr. Wharton eyed her grimly. "That's something for Bob to determine--I
have only the indications to go on. I don't blame him for losing his
wits--you're very good-looking--but the affair must end. You're not a
girl I'd care to have in my family--pardon my bluntness."
She met his eyes fairly. At no time had she flinched before him,
although inwardly she had cringed and her flesh had quivered at his
merciless attack.
"You have told Bob the truth," she began, slowly, "in the worst
possible way; you have put me in the most unfavorable light. I dare say
I never would have had the courage to tell him myself, although he
deserves to know. I've been pretty--commercial--because I had to be,
but I never sold myself, and I sha'n't begin now. Bob isn't a child;
he's nearly thirty years old--old enough to make up his own mind--and
he must make this decision, not I."
Bob opened his lips, but his father forestalled him.
"What do you mean by that?"
"I have no price. If he's sick of the match we'll end it, and it won't
cost you a cent."
Bob looked inscrutable; his father smiled for the first time during the
interview.
"That's very decent of you," he said, "but of course I sha'n't put the
good faith of your offer to the test. I don't want something for
nothing. I'll take care of you nicely."
Thus far Bob had yielded precedence to his father, but he could no
longer restrain himself. "Now let me take the chair," he commanded,
easily. "My mind is made up. You see, I didn't marry 'Peter Knight,
residence Vale,' nor 'James Knight, reputation bad,' nor even 'Mathilda
Knight, wife of Peter.' I married this kid, and the books are closed.
You say the Knights are a bad lot, and Lorelei's reputation is a trifle
discolored: maybe you're right, but mine has some inky blots on it,
too, and I guess the cleanest part of it would just about match the
darkest that hers can show. I seem to have all the best of the deal."
"Don't be an ass," growled his father.
"I've always been one--I may as well be consistent" Bob felt the
slender form at his side begin to tremble, and smiled down into the
troubled blue eyes upturned to his. "Maybe we'll both have to do some
forgiving and forgetting. I believe that's usual nowadays."
"Oh, I'm not whitewashing you," Hannibal snapped. "She probably knows
what you are."
"I do," agreed Lorelei. "He's a--drunkard, and everything that means.
But you taught him to drink before he could choose for himself."
Mr. Wharton smiled sneeringly. "Admirable! I begin to see that you're
more than a pretty woman. Get his sympathy; it's good business. Now
he'll think he must act the man. But that will wear off. And understand
this: you can't graft off me. You and your family are due for a great
disappointment. Bob hasn't anything, and he won't have until I die, but
I'm good for thirty years yet. I'm not going to disinherit him. I'm
merely going to wait until you both get tired. Take my word for it,
poverty is the most tiresome thing in the world."
"We can manage," said Lorelei.
"You speak for yourself, but he can't make a living--unless he has
something in him that I never discovered. I fear you'll find him rather
a heavy burden."
Throughout the interview Mr. Wharton had kept his temper quite
perfectly, and his coolness at this moment argued a greater fixity of
purpose than might have been inferred from a display of rage. He made a
final appeal to his son: "Can't you see that it won't do at all, Bob? I
won't stand parasites, unless they're my own. Either have done with the
matter and let me pay the charges or--go through to the bitter finish
on your own feet. She's supporting three loafers; I dare say she can
take care of another, but it isn't quite right to put it upon
her--she's sure to weary of it sometime. You'll notice I've said
nothing about your mother so far, but--she's with me in this. I'll be
in the city for several days, and I'd like to have you return to
Pittsburg with me when I go. Mother is expecting you. If you decide to
stick it out--" Wharton's face showed more than a trace of feeling, his
deep voice lowered a tone--"you may go to hell, with my compliments,
and I'll sit on the lid to keep you there."
He rose, took his hat, and stalked out of the apartment without so much
as a backward glance.