track, just below the little Gothic station of Braewood, John Atterbury
had well-nigh half a mile to walk before reaching his suburban
residence. The way led in part across untilled fields from the
inclosures of which bars had been removed to facilitate the passage of
daily commuters. In the slant sunlight of a summer evening, with insects
chirping in the dusty grass by the side of the worn foot-path, and a
fresh breeze from outlying meadows scented with clover and milkweed to
fan the brow of the toiler, this walk served as a pleasant approach, in
the company of conversational friends, to further country
refreshment—the hammock on the verandah, the intimate society of
rosebushes, or a little putting on the sward at the back of the house.
But on a night in January, with the thermometer five degrees above zero,
and a fierce wind blowing out of illimitable blackness, life in the
suburbs demanded strenuous will-power. Men put their heads down and ran
in silence, with overcoats tightly buttoned, and hands beating together,
their footsteps sounding heavily on the frozen earth.
The wind cut John Atterbury’s strong lungs like a knife, and his feet
seemed to stumble against the cold as if it had been a visible barrier.
Moreover, he bore within him no lightness of spirit, but all the chill
and fatigue of a hard day spent in business transactions that have come
to nothing, added to the bitter knowledge of an immediate and pressing
need for money in the common uses of life. He had a numbing sense of
defeat, and worse than that, of inadequacy. If the man whom he was to
meet to-night did not bring relief, he knew not where to turn. His tired
brain revolved subconsciously futile plans for the morrow, while his one
overmastering desire was to reach the light and warmth and rest of the
cozy house that sheltered his young wife and three small children.
With a sharp pang of disappointment, he perceived, as he turned the
corner, that the front of the villa was in darkness except for a dim
light in his wife’s room, and as he opened the door with his latch key
no gush of hot air greeted him, but a stony coldness. He knocked against
a go-cart in the square hall on his way to light the gas, and his wife’s
voice called down softly,
“Is that you, dear?”
“Yes. Are you ill?”
“No, only resting. Aren’t you coming up?”
“In a moment.”
He divested himself of his hat and coat, and stood absently trying to
warm his hands at the frozen register, and then with a long sigh,
prepared to take up this end of the domestic burden with the patient use
of habit. He went upstairs with a firm and even step, treading more
lightly as he passed the nursery door where the baby was going to sleep
under the charge of Katy, the nurse-maid, and entered the room where his
wife lay on the lounge in a crimson dressing-gown, a flowered coverlet
thrown over her feet, her dark hair lying in rings on the white pillow,
and her large, dark eyes turned expectantly toward him. The comfort of
the pretty, luxurious room, which gave no hint of this new poverty in
its fittings, was eclipsed by the icy chill that was like an opaque
atmosphere.
The wind outside hurled itself at the house and shook the shutters.
Atterbury turned up the gas, and then sat down on the couch by his wife
and kissed her.
“What’s the matter?”
“Nothing but that old pain; it will go over if I lie still—it was my
only chance if we are to go out to-night. It’s really better now. I
promised Mrs. Harrington faithfully this afternoon that we’d come, in
spite of the weather. Do you mind?”
“No. Is Harrington home yet?”
“She expects him back this evening. Oh, Jack, Bridget was sent for this
morning before the breakfast things were cleared away. She really didn’t
want to go off this time, but that mother of hers—! The children were
more troublesome than usual, and _had_ to be taken care of. They’re all
asleep now but the baby. I sent them off earlier than usual on account
of the cold. Katy is _no_ good around the house, and we’ve had such a
day! The furnace—”
“I see that it’s out.”
“Both fires were out, but the range is going now. The wind was all
wrong. We made up the furnace three times, but I couldn’t remember how
to turn the dampers; they never seemed to be the right way. There’s a
grate fire in the nursery, though.”
“The water hasn’t frozen in the pipes, I hope?”
There was an ominous sound in his voice.
She nodded speechlessly, and looked at him, her eyes large with unshed
tears.
“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” He rose for action. “You should have sent
for the plumber at once.”
“There wasn’t anyone to send, and it was so late when I found it out; he
wouldn’t have come until to-morrow, anyway.”
There was a certain look in his wife’s face at times which filled
Atterbury with extreme tenderness. In the seven years of their wedded
life she had explained to him every varying grade of emotion which the
sight of him caused her, but there were many things which he had never
thought of telling her, or even consciously formulating to himself. He
went over to the closet, poured out some cordial in a small glass and
brought it to her to drink, watching narrowly until a faint tinge of
color relieved the bluish pallor around her mouth. Then he poured out
another small glass for himself, and spread the down coverlet more
closely over her, frustrating her evident desire to rise.
“You lie still.” He passed a heavy, affectionate hand over her forehead,
and she rested her cheek against it with a passionate helplessness.
“What on earth did you want to do all the work for, to-day? Why didn’t
you get the McCaffrey woman? You’ve no business to tire yourself out
like this, Agnes. I don’t see how you’re ever going out this evening!”
“Oh, I can go, I’m so much better now. I thought—I know that we have so
little money—I wanted to economize; other women seem to do such things
without any trouble at all.”
“Well, we won’t economize that way. Always get what help is necessary.”
He spoke with the quick, matter-of-fact decision of a man used to
affairs, temporarily regardless of the financial situation, whose
cramping iron restrictions could be felt at every turn. “I’ll go down
now and start things up!”
“Your dinner is in the oven. I’ll send Katy to you as soon as Herbert is
asleep. She can’t leave him now, for he crawls over the crib and drops
out.”
“All right! Don’t you worry, I’ll get it.”
He ran downstairs, arrayed for service, and Agnes listened to his
receding footsteps, a warm comfort in her heart despite that racking of
the bones, as of one “smote hip and thigh,” which comes to the
delicately-born with unaccustomed kitchen-work. After some
moments—spent, as she guiltily divined, in searching for the coal
shovel—the clatter and rattle of the furnace showed that a master hand
had taken it in charge.
Atterbury stoked and shoveled with every quick sense suddenly
concentrated on a deep and hidden care. If anything should happen to his
wife—vague, yet awful phrase—if anything should “happen” to his wife!
She was not made for struggle; the doctor had told him that before. He
knew, none better! how brave, loving, yet sensitive a spirit was housed
in that tender and fragile body. If she were to leave him and their
little children—
No mist came over his eyes at the phantasm, but a sobered keenness of
vision gleamed there. There were certain things which it behooved a man
to do. He walked over to the coal bins—they were nearly empty. Well,
more coal must be ordered at once; he would himself speak about it to
Murphy, and make arrangements to pay that last bill—somehow.
A catalogue of indebtedness unrolled itself before him, but he gazed at
it steadily. The fog-like depression was gone. He felt in his veins the
first tingling of that bitter wine of necessity which invigorates the
strong spirit.
And there was Harrington, at whose house the card party was to be held
to-night. He drew a long breath, and his heart beat quicker. He had not
told his wife how much he counted on seeing Harrington, but he was sure
that she had divined it—nothing else would have taken him out again on
such a night. This wealthy and genial neighbor had held out great hopes
of furthering one scheme of Atterbury’s in that trip out West from which
he had just returned. Atterbury had helped Harrington about his patent,
and the latter professed himself eager to repay the service. If
Harrington had used his influence—as he could use it—and had got the
company to look at the land, why, it was as good as sold. Atterbury knew
that it held the very qualities for which they were looking. If the plan
were a success, then what had been started first as an attractive
“flyer” might prove to be a main dependence when most needed. He felt a
little bitterly that the friends on whom he had most counted had failed
him. Callender—Nichols—Waring—in their plans there was no room for him.
This meeting with Harrington was the crucial point on which the future
hung.
When Atterbury went back to his wife, warmed with his work, she was
standing before the mirror, dressing; a faint, smoky smell arose from
the register. The wind was still evidently in the wrong direction for
chimneys. An infant’s prattle, mixed with an occasional whimper, came
from the nursery.
“I’ve wrapped hot cloths around the pipes,” he said cheerfully, “and
left a couple of kerosene lamps lighted on the floor near them. We’ll
have to take our chances now. What’s this envelope on the mantelpiece?”
His face fell. “Another assessment from the Association? That makes the
eleventh this month, besides the regular insurance, that was due on the
first.”
“But you can’t pay it!” She had looked bright when he came in, but now
her lips quivered.
“Oh, I’ll have to pay that; don’t you worry about it. I tell you,
though, Agnes, I’d be worth a good deal more to you dead than I am now.”
“Don’t! You know I hate to hear you talk like that. I’d never _take_
your old insurance money.” She grasped him by her two slender, cold
hands and tried ineffectually to shake him while he smiled down at her,
and then hid her head on his breast, raising it, however, to say,
“Did you eat your dinner? I hope that it wasn’t burned.”
“I ate—some of it!”
“Oh,” she groaned, “and on such a night!”
“Never mind, I’m counting on a good hot little supper at Harrington’s.
And, Agnes—” having none of the care of the children, he had a habit of
intervening at inopportune moments with well-meant suggestions—“just
listen to that child! Don’t you think he might go to sleep better if I
brought him in here with us for a few moments?”
“_No_,” said his wife. She added afterward, sweetly in token of renewed
amity, “He’s such a darling, and he looks more like you every day. He’ll
be asleep soon. But I’m sure Gwendolen will have the croup to-night, the
house has been so cold.”
“Oh, of course,” said Atterbury grimly. By some weird fatality the
festive hour abroad was almost inevitably followed by harrowing
attendance on one or other of the infants in the long watches of the
night. Husband and wife looked at each other and laughed, and then
kissed in silence, like two children, in simple accord.
It was with many instructions to Katy that the Atterburys finally left
the house, instructions that comprehended the dampers, the babies, and
the pipes.
“I don’t suppose that she will remember a word that we have told her,”
said Agnes resignedly.
“Well, we are only going three doors away; I’ll run back after a while
and see.”
“I’m so glad I’m going with _you_,” she whispered as they walked the few
steps, he trying to shield her from the violence of the wind.
“Ah, yes,” he jibed, “it’s such a new thing, isn’t it, to be with me!
You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
The Harringtons’ house was certainly a change from the one they had
left. Delicious warmth radiated from it as the ample doors unclosed to
let the guests in; the crimson-shaded lights were reflected on the card
tables and the polished floor, and laughing voices greeted the
newcomers.
“You are late,” said the hostess, who was considered handsome, with
heavy black eyebrows, dimples in her white, rounded cheeks, and a
petulant expression. She wore a bunch of violets in the belt of her
light blue gown. “You are late, but not so late as my husband. I
expected him home to dinner, and he hasn’t come yet. It’s the way I’m
always treated,” she pouted engagingly; “you other men will have to be
very, very nice to me.”
She stared with public audacity into the eyes of the man nearest her,
and then let her long black lashes sweep her cheek. It pleased her to
pose as the attractive young married woman, and by tacit consent the
suburban husbands were allowed by their wives to go through the motions
of flirting with her.
Atterbury settled down to the strain of waiting. The company was
composed of couples who saw each other daily, the men on the trains, the
women in their small social rounds. Every event that happened in their
little circle was common property, to be discussed by all. The evolution
of Mrs. Oliver’s black spangled gown, the expensive house which the new
doctor was erecting under the auspices of the Building Loan Association,
Totty Jenkins’ stirring experiences in the kindergarten, and Mr.
Waring’s sudden substitution of the seven-thirty-one morning train for
the eight-fourteen, were subjects interspersed with, and of the same
calibre, as discussions on the presidential candidate, the last new
book, or affairs in Africa.
In spite of this pooling of interests, so to speak, the weekly gathering
at the houses of different members always took on an aspect of novelty.
Everyone dressed for the occasion, and there was usually a good game of
cards, and a modest little supper afterwards, and the women met other
men besides their husbands, and the men met each other and smoked after
supper. The only real variety in the programme was that the simple and
hearty friendliness beneath all this was more apparent at some houses
than at others.
The Harringtons—somewhat new arrivals—were the confessedly rich people
of the set, and the entertainments which they gave were characterized
with a little more pomp and circumstance. Mrs. Harrington, for all her
perfunctory belleship, was a lively and entertaining hostess. Everyone
strove to make up to her for Harrington’s absence, and a particularly
cordial spirit prevailed. It was always a secret trial to Agnes not to
play cards at the same table as her husband in the progressive game, but
to-night she did not mind, for his steel-blue eyes met hers in a kind,
remembering glance whenever she looked for it, that spoke of a sweet and
intimate companionship, with which outside events had nothing to do.
In one of the intermissions of the game Atterbury heard Henry Waring say
to Nichols,
“Did you see the little item in one of the evening papers about that
Western Company to whom Harrington sold his patent?”
“No, what was it?” asked Nichols.
“They’re going to start up the plant at once near some town in Missouri,
I’ve forgotten the name—paid fifty thousand for the ground. You see,
they required peculiar natural facilities; that’s what’s kept them back
so long. It seems a good deal of money to pay for a clay-bank. Of
course, Harrington’s in a hurry to start them up; he’ll get a big
royalty.”
“You are _not_ to talk business,” said Mrs. Harrington’s gay voice.
Atterbury felt the room swirl around with him; _he_ knew the name of the
town well enough! He had been sure from the first that those barren
acres of his held just what the Company was looking for, but he had
never dreamed of getting more than ten or fifteen thousand for them. A
warm gratitude to Harrington filled him, and then a chill of doubt. The
newspaper only chronicled a rumor, not a certainty, for no real sale
could take place without his knowledge.
He did not know how he played after this, and it was a tremendous relief
when the players left the tables and stood or sat in little home-like
groups, all talking and laughing at once in a merry tumult. There was in
the air that fragrant aroma of newly-made coffee which is so peculiarly
convivial in the suburbs, and the absence of Harrington, who was
nevertheless considered to be a jolly good fellow, had ceased to be
noticed by anyone but Atterbury, when the sound of wheels was heard
grating on the driveway outside. He clutched the chair he stood by,
although his face was impassive. The hour he had been waiting for was
here—Harrington had come.
Mrs. Harrington ran into the hall with an exclamation of pleasure, as
the door opened, letting in a flood of cold air and a large man heavily
wrapped in fur. The listening company heard him say,
“What in—time—have you got this crowd here to-night for?” The words were
respectable, but the tone cursed.
There was a stiffening change in her voice. “Hush! Didn’t you get my
letter?”
“What letter? No, if I had I wouldn’t have been fool enough to come home
for a quiet night’s rest; I might have known I couldn’t get it here. You
can’t live without a lot of people cackling around you.”
“Go to bed, then. Nobody wants to see you!” It was the quick thrust of a
rapier.
“Much rest I’d get with that mob in there.”
The woman flashed back at him with a white heat,
“You have your men’s dinners and your wine parties—and you grudge me a
little pleasure like this! It’s like you; it’s like—” For very shame’s
sake, the guests were hurriedly talking to cover the sounds of strife.
“Harrington’s trip evidently hasn’t done him much good,” said Nichols to
Atterbury. “I doubt his success. He has too many large schemes on hand;
what he makes in one way he uses to float something else.”
“It’s possible,” said Atterbury thoughtfully.
“It doesn’t do to take things like that; if you lose your grip you can’t
get on.”
“That’s what I’m finding out now. I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Nichols,
that I’m in a hole. But you have no experience in that way; your
business is secure.”
The two men had drawn to one side and were talking in low and
confidential tones.
“Is it? I tell you, Atterbury, the time I went through five years ago
was awful, simply awful. No, I never said a word to a soul here; nobody
even suspected. There was one time when I thought I’d have to send Sue
and the babies home to her father, and light out for the Klondike.”
“But you didn’t,” said Atterbury, his own pulse leaping to the courage
of the other man with a sudden kinship.
“No, I didn’t go. You _can’t_ be discouraged when you have a wife and
children to support. Things turned out—it was most unexpected. I’ll tell
you all about it some day. It’s well that the opportunities of life are
not bounded by our knowledge of them, Atterbury.”
They looked at each other in silence with a large assent.
“By the way, we are rather at a standstill at present,” said Nichols
after a pause. “We’ve got to get some one to represent us in South
Africa at once—business possibilities are opening up there tremendously.
You don’t happen to know of the right person?”
“Myself,” said Atterbury.
“I wish it were possible,” said Nichols politely. “But of course that’s
out of the question. We must have some one who thoroughly understands
the business, and the machines—one who can take the initiative. The fact
is, either Callender or I ought to go, but we can’t leave. We virtually
need a third man in the firm, but he must have capital.”
“Please come into the other room, all of you,” said the hostess with a
forced playfulness, pulling aside the porti—res which had concealed the
little feast. There was a heightened color in her face, and her eyes
were hard. “Mr. Harrington says that he is going to stay in here until
we have finished, but I know you won’t miss _him_!”
“Oh, come along in, Harrington,” said Nichols good-naturedly. “Tell us
of your travels in the wild and woolly West.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” said Harrington shortly, turning away from
the instinctive question in Atterbury’s look with almost brutal
rudeness, and pushing past him to an armchair, where he sat down and
closed his eyes wearily. He was a big man, with thick, black hair, and a
black mustache, which dropped over a heavy chin.
“I’ve passed the nights in beastly sleeping cars, and the days in dining
and wining a lot of low, greasy politicians. I’m _dog_-tired.” There
were deep lines in his low forehead and under his eyes—and his large,
white, powerful hand clasped and unclasped nervously.
“You go in there, both of you. I’m all broke up. My wife will entertain
you; her damn chatter drives me mad!”
“I’ll stay here with you,” said Atterbury resolutely.
“I will send your supper in to you,” called Mrs. Harrington lightly, as
she saw him draw up a chair to one of the deserted card tables near
which Harrington was sitting with his eyes still closed and his head
leaned back against the cushions.
He paid no attention to the dishes, but Atterbury ate and drank quickly,
like the hungry man he was, though hardly knowing what he tasted, except
that it was warm and good. Then he sat absently looking at the scene in
the supper room where the guests were grouped around the table, the
wax-lights in the candelabra illumining the women opposite him; Mrs.
Harrington’s brilliant eyes and blue gown, the fair hair and scarlet
draperies of pretty Mrs. Waring, the white teeth and charming smile of
black-robed Mrs. Callender, and the old-rose bodice, slender neck, and
dusky, drooping head that belonged to Agnes.
* * * * *
In spite of the festive appearance, there was manifest chill and
restraint. The men, all but Callender and Nichols, who talked apart, had
shifted over to seats by their wives, a position which does not require
due exertion in the matter of entertainment. It is difficult to eat and
drink merrily when your host is palpably waiting for your departure.
Agnes’s hand shook as she held the cup of hot coffee to which she had
been looking forward, and her creamed oysters were untouched while she
tried to open a conversation with Mrs. Callender all about the Book
Club.
* * * * *
“Well,” said Atterbury suddenly after a while, “what have you got to say
to me, Harrington?” The other man’s manner was offensive, but Atterbury
was disposed to be conciliating.
Harrington unclosed his heavy, dark-ringed eyes and gazed at him.
“What have I got to say to you?” He gave a short laugh. “Why, nothing
that I know of—nothing but that I have an internal headache.” There was
an extraordinary undercurrent of insolence in his manner which Atterbury
was at a loss to explain.
“I am sorry to have to disturb you if you are ill,” said Atterbury in
level tones, “but a word will suffice, Harrington. I know that the land
is virtually sold—it was in the evening paper. How much does it bring?”
“What land?”
“My land.”
“I don’t know anything about your property; the ground that the Company
bought belonged to me.”
“To you! You never told me that you owned any in Missouri.”
“Do I have to tell you everything?” Harrington’s black eyes were
contemptuously defiant.
“No, but you will have to tell me _this_,” said Atterbury.
Harrington shifted uneasily. “Well, then, take the truth if you want it.
I meant to keep faith with you fairly enough, and I would have stuck to
your interests if I could have afforded to—that’s the whole gist of the
matter. And you’ve no case for complaint; we hadn’t signed any
agreement.”
“You found another section like mine?”
Harrington nodded. “Nearly as good. I bought it for a song, and the
Company sent out a surveyor and a couple of geologists of their own to
look it up, and paid me fifty thousand for it—that is, indirectly, of
course. I didn’t appear in the sale and by—I lost every cent in a deal
yesterday.” He swore under his breath.
“You used the private information I gave you, I suppose?” said Atterbury
in dangerously low tones.
A flicker of a smile crossed Harrington’s moody face.
“Well, yes. You gave me the points, and I used them; any man would.”
“You miserable—sneaking—liar!” said Atterbury very slowly. He rose, and
brought both hands down on the table with a gesture that did not lose in
power because it made no sound. “No man that lives shall cheat me with
impunity. I’ll brand you for what you are!”
“You can’t,” said Harrington insolently.
Atterbury smiled with the scorn which disdained reply, and turned on his
heel. He did not see the startled glance of Nichols and Callender as he
went over to a place beside them. His wife wondered, as they did, at a
new royalty in his tall bearing, as of one used to high command, and
bowed herself in adoration before it.
He defeated, he cast down! In that moment of tingling indignation he
felt himself a conqueror; nor obstacle, nor loss, nor circumstance, nor
treachery should stand in his way. This blow had felled the last barrier
that confined a free spirit, superbly at one with the elemental force
which displaces atoms and creates new worlds.
The current of a mighty strength was in him, dominant, compelling, that
strength which in some mysterious way has a volition of its own, apart
from him who possesses it, bending men and events to his uses.
There was a vibrant tone in his voice as he said,
“Mr. Nichols, I want to go to South Africa for you.”
The gaze of the two men met with almost an electric shock.
“But you don’t know the business!”
The protest half invited discussion.
“I can learn it.”