The social mill ground on for another month. Montague withdrew himself
as much as his brother would let him; but Alice, was on the go all
night and half the day. Oliver had sold his racing automobile to a
friend—he was a man of family now, he said, and his wild days were
over. He had got, instead, a limousine car for Alice; though she
declared she had no need of it—if ever she was going to any place,
Charlie Carter always begged her to use his. Charlie’s siege was as
persistent as ever, as Montague noticed with annoyance.
The great law case was going forward. After weeks of study and
investigation, Montague felt that he had the matter well in hand; and
he had taken Mr. Hasbrook’s memoranda as a basis for a new work of his
own, much more substantial. Bit by bit; as he dug into the subject, he
had discovered a state of affairs in the Fidelity Company, and, indeed,
in the whole insurance business and its allied realms of banking and
finance, which shocked him profoundly. It was impossible for him to
imagine how such conditions could exist and remain unknown to the
public—more especially as every one in Wall Street with whom he talked
seemed to know about them and to take them for granted.
His client’s papers had provided him with references to the books;
Montague had taken this dry material and made of it a protest which had
the breath of life in it. It was a thing at which he toiled with deadly
earnestness; it was not merely a struggle of one man to get a few
thousand dollars, it was an appeal in behalf of millions of helpless
people whose trust had been betrayed. It was the first step in a long
campaign, which the young lawyer meant should force a great evil into
the light of day.
He went over his bill of complaint with Mr. Hasbrook, and he was glad
to see that the work he had done made its impression upon him. In fact,
his client was a little afraid that some of his arguments might be too
radical in tone—from the strictly legal point of view, he made haste to
explain. But Montague reassured him upon this point.
And then came the day when the great ship was ready for launching. The
news must have spread quickly, for a few hours after the papers in the
suit had been filed, Montague received a call from a newspaper
reporter, who told him of the excitement in financial circles, where
the thing had fallen like a bomb. Montague explained the purpose of the
suit, and gave the reporter a number of facts which he felt certain
would attract attention to the matter. When he picked up the paper the
next morning, however, he was surprised to find that only a few lines
had been given to the case, and that his interview had been replaced by
one with an unnamed official of the Fidelity, to the effect that the
attack upon the company was obviously for black-mailing purposes.
That was the only ripple which Montague’s work produced upon the
surface of the pool; but there was a great commotion among the fish at
the bottom, about which he was soon to learn.
That evening, while he was hard at work in his study, he received a
telephone call from his brother. “I’m coming round to see you,” said
Oliver. “Wait for me.”
“All right,” said the other, and added, “I thought you were dining at
the Wallings’.”
“I’m there now,” was the answer. “I’m leaving.”
“What is the matter?” Montague asked.
“There’s hell to pay,” was the reply—and then silence.
When Oliver appeared, a few minutes later, he did not even stop to set
down his hat, but exclaimed, “Allan, what in heaven’s name have you
been doing?”
“What do you mean?” asked the other.
“Why, that suit!”
“What about it?”
“Good God, man!” cried Oliver. “Do you mean that you really don’t know
what you’ve done?”
Montague was staring at him. “I’m afraid I don’t,” said he.
“Why, you’re turning the world upside down!” exclaimed the other.
“Everybody you know is crazy about it.”
“Everybody I know!” echoed Montague. “What have they to do with it?”
“Why, you’ve stabbed them in the back!” half shouted Oliver. “I could
hardly believe my ears when they told me. Robbie Walling is simply
wild—I never had such a time in my life.”
“I don’t understand yet,” said Montague, more and more amazed. “What
has he to do with it?”
“Why, man,” cried Oliver, “his brother’s a director in the Fidelity!
And his own interests—and all the other companies! You’ve struck at the
whole insurance business!”
Montague caught his breath. “Oh, I see!” he said.
“How could you think of such a thing?” cried the other, wildly. “You
promised to consult me about things—”
“I told you when I took this case,” put in Montague, quickly.
“I know,” said his brother. “But you didn’t explain—and what did I know
about it? I thought I could leave it to your common sense not to mix up
in a thing like this.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Montague, gravely. “I had no idea of any such
result.”
“That’s what I told Robbie,” said Oliver. “Good God, what a time I
had!”
He took his hat and coat and laid them on the bed, and sat down and
began to tell about it. “I made him realize the disadvantage you were
under,” he said, “being a stranger and not knowing the ground. I
believe he had an idea that you tried to get his confidence on purpose
to attack him. It was Mrs. Robbie, I guess—you know her fortune is all
in that quarter.”
Oliver wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “My!” he said.—“And
fancy what old Wyman must be saying about this! And what a time poor
Betty must be having! And then Freddie Vandam—the air will be blue for
half a mile round his place! I must send him a wire and explain that it
was a mistake, and that we’re getting out of it.”
And he got up, to suit the action to the word. But half-way to the desk
he heard his brother say, “Wait.”
He turned, and saw Montague, quite pale. “I suppose by ‘getting out of
it,’” said the latter, “you mean dropping the case.”
“Of course,” was the answer.
“Well, then,” he continued, very gravely,—“I can see that it’s going to
be hard, and I’m sorry. But you might as well understand me at the very
beginning—I will never drop this case.”
Oliver’s jaw fell limp. “Allan!” he gasped.
There was a silence; and then the storm broke. Oliver knew his brother
well enough to realize just how thoroughly he meant what he said; and
so he got the full force of the shock all at once. He raved and swore
and wrung his hands, and declaimed at his brother, saying that he had
betrayed him, that he was ruining him—dumping himself and the whole
family into the ditch. They would be jeered at and insulted—they would
be blacklisted and thrown out of Society. Alice’s career would be cut
short—every door would be closed to her. His own career would die
before it was born; he would never get into the clubs—he would be a
pariah—he would be bankrupted and penniless. Again and again Oliver
went over the situation, naming person after person who would be
outraged, and describing what that person would do; there were the
Wallings and the Venables and the Havens, the Vandams and the Todds and
the Wymans—they were all one regiment, and Montague had flung a bomb
into the centre of them!
It was very terrible to him to see his brother’s rage and despair; but
he had seen his way clear through this matter, and he knew that there
was no turning back for him. “It is painful to learn that all one’s
acquaintances are thieves,” he said. “But that does not change my
opinion of stealing.”
“But my God!” cried Oliver; “did you come to New York to preach
sermons?”
To which the other answered, “I came to practise law. And the lawyer
who will not fight injustice is a traitor to his profession.”
Oliver threw up his hands in despair. What could one say to a sentiment
such as that?
—But then again he came to the charge, pointing out to his brother the
position in which he had placed himself with the Wallings. He had
accepted their hospitality; they had taken him and Alice in, and done
everything in the world for them—things for which no money could ever
repay them. And now he had struck them!
But the only effect of that was to make Montague regret that he had
ever had anything to do with the Wallings. If they expected to use
their friendship to tie his hands in such a matter, they were people he
would have left alone.
“But do you realize that it’s not merely yourself you’re ruining?”
cried Oliver. “Do you know what you’re doing to Alice?”
“That is harder yet for me,” the other replied. “But I am sure that
Alice would not ask me to stop.”
Montague was firmly set in his own mind; but it seemed to be quite
impossible for his brother to realize that this was the case. He would
give up; but then, going back into his own mind, and facing the thought
of this person and that, and the impossibility of the situation which
would arise, he would return to the attack with new anguish in his
voice. He implored and scolded, and even wept; and then he would get
himself together again, and come and sit in front of his brother and
try to reason with him.
And so it was that in the small hours of the morning, Montague, pale
and nervous, but quite unshaken, was sitting and listening while his
brother unfolded before him a picture of the Metropolis as he had come
to see it. It was a city ruled by mighty forces—money-forces; great
families and fortunes, which had held their sway for generations, and
regarded the place, with all its swarming millions, as their
birthright. They possessed it utterly—they held it in the hollow of
their hands. Railroads and telegraphs and telephones—banks and
insurance and trust companies—all these they owned; and the political
machines and the legislatures, the courts and the newspapers, the
churches and the colleges. And their rule was for plunder; all the
streams of profit ran into their coffers. The stranger who came to
their city succeeded as he helped them in their purposes, and failed if
they could not use him. A great editor or bishop was a man who taught
their doctrines; a great statesman was a man who made the laws for
them; a great lawyer was one who helped them to outwit the public. Any
man who dared to oppose them, they would cast out and trample on, they
would slander and ridicule and ruin.
And Oliver came down to particulars—he named these powerful men, one
after one, and showed what they could do. If his brother would only be
a man of the world, and see the thing! Look at all the successful
lawyers! Oliver named them, one after one—shrewd devisers of
corporation trickery, with incomes of hundreds of thousands a year. He
could not name the men who had refused to play the game—for no one had
ever heard of them. But it was so evident what would happen in this
case! His friends would cast him off; his own client would get his
price—whatever it was—and then leave him in the lurch, and laugh at
him! “If you can’t make up your mind to play the game,” cried Oliver,
frantically, “at least you can give it up! There are plenty of other
ways of getting a living—if you’ll let me, I’ll take care of you
myself, rather than have you disgrace me. Tell me—will you do that?
Will you quit altogether?”
And Montague suddenly leaped to his feet, and brought his fist down
upon the desk with a bang. “No!” he cried; “by God, no!”
“Let me make you understand me once for all,” he rushed on. “You’ve
shown me New York as you see it. I don’t believe it’s the truth—I don’t
believe it for one single moment! But let me tell you this, I shall
stay here and find out—and if it is true, it won’t stop me! I shall
stay here and defy those people! I shall stay and fight them till the
day I die! They may ruin me,—I’ll go and live in a garret if I have
to,—but as sure as there’s a God that made me, I’ll never stop till
I’ve opened the eyes of the people to what they’re doing!”
Montague towered over his brother, white-hot and terrible. Oliver
shrank from him—he never had seen such a burst of wrath from him
before. “Do you understand me now?” Montague cried; and he answered, in
a despairing voice, “Yes, yes.”
“I see it’s all up,” he added weakly. “You and I can’t pull together.”
“No,” exclaimed the other, passionately, “we can’t. And we might as
well give up trying. You have chosen to be a time-server and a
lick-spittle, and I don’t choose it! Do you think I’ve learned nothing
in the time I’ve been here? Why, man, you used to be daring and
clever—and now you never draw a breath without wondering if these rich
snobs will like the way you do it! And you want Alice to sell herself
to them—you want me to sell my career to them!”
There was a long pause. Oliver had turned very pale. And then suddenly
his brother caught himself together, and said: “I’m sorry. I didn’t
mean to quarrel, but you’ve goaded me too much. I’m grateful for what
you have tried to do for me, and I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.
But I can’t go on with this game. I’ll quit, and you can disown me to
your friends—tell them that I’ve run amuck, and to forget they ever
knew me. They’ll hardly blame you for it—they know you too well for
that. And as for Alice, I’ll talk it out with her to-morrow, and let
her decide for herself—if she wants to be a Society queen, she can put
herself in your hands, and I’ll get out of her way. On the other hand,
if she approves of what I’m doing, why we’ll both quit, and you won’t
have to bother with either of us.”
That was the basis upon which they parted for the night; but like most
resolutions taken at white heat, it was not followed literally. It was
very hard for Montague to have to confront Alice with such a choice;
and as for Oliver, when he went home and thought it over, he began to
discover gleams of hope. He might make it clear to every one that he
was not responsible for his brother’s business vagaries, and take his
chances upon that basis. After all, there were wheels within wheels in
Society; and if the Robbie Wallings chose to break with him—why, they
had plenty of enemies. There might even be interests which would be
benefited by Allan’s course, and would take him up.
Montague had resolved to write and break every engagement which he had
made, and to sever his connection with Society at one stroke. But the
next day his brother came again, with compromises and new
protestations. There was no use going to the other extreme: he, Oliver,
would have it out with the Wallings, and they might all go on their way
as if nothing had happened.
So Montague made his début in the rôle of knight-errant. He went with
many qualms and misgivings, uncertain how each new person would take
it. The next evening he was promised for a theatre-party with Siegfried
Harvey; and they had supper in a private room at Delmonico’s, and there
came Mrs. Winnie, resplendent as an apple tree in early April—and
murmuring with bated breath, “Oh, you dreadful man, what have you been
doing?”
“Have I been poaching on _your_ preserves?” he asked promptly.
“No, not mine,” she said, “but—” and then she hesitated.
“On Mr. Duval’s?” he asked.
“No,” she said, “not his—but everybody else’s! He was telling me about
it to-day—there’s a most dreadful uproar. He wanted me to try to find
out what you were up to, and who was behind it.”
Montague listened, wonderingly. Did Mrs. Winnie mean to imply that her
husband had asked her to try to worm his business secrets out of him?
That was what she seemed to imply. “I told him I never talked business
with my friends,” she said. “He can ask you himself, if he chooses. But
what _does_ it all mean, anyhow?”
Montague smiled at the naïve inconsistency.
“It means nothing,” said he, “except that I am trying to get justice
for a client.”
“But can you afford to make so many powerful enemies?” she asked.
“I’ve taken my chances on that,” he replied.
Mrs. Winnie answered nothing, but looked at him with wondering
admiration in her eyes. “You arc different from the men about you,” she
remarked, after a while—and her tone gave Montague to understand that
there was one person who meant to stand by him.
But Mrs. Winnie Duval was not all Society. Montague was amused to
notice with what suddenness the stream of invitations slacked up; it
was necessary for Alice to give her calling list many revisions.
Freddie Vandam had promised to invite them to his place on Long Island,
and of course that invitation would never come; likewise they would
never again see the palace of the Lester Todds, upon the Jersey
mountain-top.
Oliver put in the next few days in calling upon people to explain his
embarrassing situation. He washed his hands of his brother’s affairs,
he said; and his friends might do the same, if they saw fit. With the
Robbie Wallings he had a stormy half hour, about which he thought it
best to say little to the rest of the family. Robbie did not break with
him utterly, because of their Wall Street Alliance; but Mrs. Robbie’s
feeling was so bitter, he said, that it would be best if Alice saw
nothing of her for a while. He had a long talk with Alice, and
explained the situation. The girl was utterly dumbfounded, for she was
deeply grateful to Mrs. Robbie, and fond of her as well; and she could
not believe that a friend could be so cruelly unjust to her.
The upshot of the whole situation was a very painful episode. A few
days later Alice met Mrs. Robbie at a reception; and she took the lady
aside, and tried to tell her how distressed and helpless she was. And
the result was that Mrs. Robbie flew into a passion and railed at her,
declaring in the presence of several people that she had sponged upon
her and abused her hospitality! And so poor Alice came home, weeping
and half hysterical.
All of which, of course, was like oil upon a fire; the heavens were
lighted up with the conflagration. The next development was a paragraph
in Society’s scandal-sheet—telling with infinite gusto how a certain
ultra-fashionable matron had taken up a family of stranded waifs from a
far State, and introduced them into the best circles, and even gone so
far as to give a magnificent dance in their honour; and how the
discovery had been made that the head of the family had been secretly
preparing an attack upon their business interests; and of the tearing
of hair and gnashing of teeth which had followed—and the violent
quarrel in a public place. The paragraph concluded with the prediction
that the strangers would find themselves the centre of a merry social
war.
Oliver was the first to show them this paper. But lest by any chance
they should miss it, half a dozen unknown friends were good enough to
mail them copies, carefully marked.—And then came Reggie Mann, who as
free-lance and gossip-gatherer sat on the fence and watched the fun;
Reggie wore a thin veil of sympathy over his naked glee, and brought
them the latest reports from all portions of the battle-ground. Thus
they were able to know exactly what everybody was saying about them—who
was amused and who was outraged, and who proposed to drop them and who
to take them up.
Montague listened for a while, but then he got tired of it, and went
for a walk to escape it—but only to run into another trap. It was dark,
and he was strolling down the Avenue, when out of a brilliantly lighted
jewellery shop came Mrs. Billy Alden to her carriage. And she hailed
him with an exclamation.
“You man,” she cried, “what have you been doing?”
He tried to laugh it off and escape, but she took him by the arm,
commanding, “Get in here and tell me about it.”
So he found himself moving with the slow stream of vehicles on the
Avenue, and with Mrs. Billy gazing at him quizzically and asking him if
he did not feel like a hippopotamus in a frog-pond.
He replied to her raillery by asking her under which flag she stood.
But there was little need to ask that, for anyone who was fighting a
Walling became _ipso facto_ a friend of Mrs. Billy’s. She told Montague
that if he felt his social position was imperilled, all he had to do
was to come to her. She would gird on her armour and take the field.
“But tell me how you came to do it,” she said.
He answered that there was very little to tell. He had taken up a case
which was obviously just, but having no idea what a storm it would
raise.
Then he noticed that his companion was looking at him sharply. “Do you
really mean that’s all there is to it?” she asked.
“Of course I do,” said he, perplexed.
“Do you know,” was her unexpected response, “I hardly know what to make
of you. I’m afraid to trust you, on account of your brother.”
Montague was embarrassed. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Everybody thinks there’s some trickery in that suit,” she answered.
“Oh,” said Montague, “I see. Well, they will find out. If it will help
you any to know it, I’ve been having no end of scenes with my brother.”
“I’ll believe you,” said Mrs. Billy, genially. “But it seems strange
that a man could have been so blind to a situation! I feel quite
ashamed because I didn’t help you myself!”
The carriage had stopped at Mrs. Billy’s home, and she asked him to
dinner. “There’ll be nobody but my brother,” she said,—“we’re resting
this evening. And I can make up to you for my negligence!”
Montague had no engagement, and so he went in, and saw Mrs. Billy’s
mansion, which was decorated in imitation of a Doge’s palace, and met
Mr. “Davy” Alden, a mild-mannered little gentleman who obeyed orders
promptly. They had a comfortable dinner of half-a-dozen courses, and
then retired to the drawing-room, where Mrs. Billy sank into a huge
easy chair, with a decanter of whisky and some cracked ice in readiness
beside it. Then from a tray she selected a thick black cigar, and
placidly bit off the end and lighted it, and then settled back at her
ease, and proceeded to tell Montague about New York, and about the
great families who ruled it, and where and how they had got their
money, and who were their allies and who their enemies, and what
particular skeletons were hidden in each of their closets.
It was worth coming a long way to listen to Mrs. Billy tête-à-tête; her
thoughts were vigorous, and her imagery was picturesque. She spoke of
old Dan Waterman, and described him as a wild boar rooting chestnuts.
He was all right, she said, if you didn’t come under his tree. And
Montague asked, “Which is his tree?” and she answered, “Any one he
happens to be under at the time.”
And then she came to the Wallings. Mrs. Billy had been in on the inside
of that family, and there was nothing she didn’t know about it; and she
brought the members up, one by one, and dissected them, and exhibited
them for Montague’s benefit. They were typical _bourgeois_ people, she
said. They were burghers. They had never shown the least capacity for
refinement—they ate and drank, and jostled other people out of the way.
The old ones had been boors, and the new ones were cads.
And Mrs. Billy sat and puffed at her cigar. “Do you know the history of
the family?” she asked. “The founder was a rough old ferryman. He
fought his rivals so well that in the end he owned all the boats; and
then some one discovered the idea of buying legislatures and building
railroads, and he went into that. It was a time when they simply
grabbed things—if you ever look into it, you’ll find they’re making
fortunes to-day out of privileges that the old man simply sat down on
and held. There’s a bridge at Albany, for instance, to which they
haven’t the slightest right; my brother knows about it—they’ve given
themselves a contract with their railroad by which they’re paid for
every passenger, and their profit every year is greater than the cost
of the bridge. The son was the head of the family when I came in; and I
found that he had it all arranged to leave thirty million dollars to
one of his sons, and only ten million to my husband. I set to work to
change that, I can tell you. I used to go around to see him, and
scratch his back and tickle him and make him feel good. Of course the
family went wild—my, how they hated me! They set old Ellis to work to
keep me off—have you met Judge Ellis?”
“I have,” said Montague.
“Well, there’s a pussy-footed old hypocrite for you,” said Mrs. Billy.
“In those days he was Walling’s business lackey—used to pass the money
to the legislators and keep the wheels of the machine greased. One of
the first things I said to the old man was that I didn’t ask him to
entertain my butler, and he mustn’t ask me to entertain his valet—and
so I forbid Ellis to enter my house. And when I found that he was
trying to get between the old man and me, I flew into a rage and boxed
his ears and chased him out of the room!”
Mrs. Billy paused, and laughed heartily over the recollection. “Of
course that tickled the old man to death,” she continued. “The Wallings
never could make out how I managed to get round him as I did; but it
was simply because I was honest with him. They’d come snivelling round,
pretending they were anxious about his health; while I wanted his
money, and I told him so.”
The valiant lady turned to the decanter. “Have some Scotch?” she asked,
and poured some for herself, and then went on with her story. “When I
first came to New York,” she said, “the rich people’s houses were all
alike—all dreary brownstone fronts, sandwiched in on one or two city
lots. I vowed that I would have a house with some room all around
it—and that was the beginning of those palaces that all New York walks
by and stares at. You can hardly believe it now—those houses were a
scandal! But the sensation tickled the old man. I remember one day we
walked up the Avenue to see how they were coming on; and he pointed
with his big stick to the second floor, and asked, ‘What’s that?’ I
answered, ‘It’s a safe I’m building into the house.’ (That was a new
thing, too, in those days.)—‘I’m going to keep my money in that,’ I
said. ‘Bah!’ he growled, ‘when you’re done with this house, you won’t
have any money left.’—‘I’m planning to make you fill it for me,’ I
answered; and do you know, he chuckled all the way home over it!”
Mrs. Billy sat laughing softly to herself. “We had great old battles in
those days,” she said. “Among other things, I had to put the Wallings
into Society. They were sneaking round on the outside when I
came—licking people’s boots and expecting to be kicked. I said to
myself, I’ll put an end to that—we’ll have a show-down! So I gave a
ball that made the whole country sit up and gasp—it wouldn’t be noticed
particularly nowadays, but then people had never dreamed of anything so
gorgeous. And I made out a list of all the people I wanted to know in
New York, and I said to myself: ‘If you come, you’re a friend, and if
you don’t come, you’re an enemy.’ And they all came, let me tell you!
And there was never any question about the Wallings being in Society
after that.”
Mrs. Billy halted; and Montague remarked, with a smile, that doubtless
she was sorry now that she had done it.
“Oh, no,” she answered, with a shrug of her shoulders. “I find that all
I have to do is to be patient—I hate people, and think I’d like to
poison them, but if I only wait long enough, something happens to them
much worse than I ever dreamed of. You’ll be revenged on the Robbies
some day.”
“I don’t want any revenge,” Montague answered. “I’ve no quarrel with
them—I simply wish I hadn’t accepted their hospitality. I didn’t know
they were such little people. It seems hard to believe it.”
Mrs. Billy laughed cynically. “What could you expect?” she said. “They
know there’s nothing to them but their money. When that’s gone, they’re
gone—they could never make any more.”
The lady gave a chuckle, and added: “Those words make me think of
Davy’s experience when he wanted to go to Congress! Tell him about it,
Davy.”
But Mr. Alden did not warm to the subject; he left the tale to his
sister.
“He was a Democrat, you know,” said she, “and he went to the boss and
told him he’d like to go to Congress. The answer was that it would cost
him forty thousand dollars, and he kicked at the price. Others didn’t
have to put up such sums, he said—why should he? And the old man
growled at him, ‘The rest have other things to give. One can deliver
the letter-carriers, another is paid for by a corporation. But what can
you do? What is there to you but your money?’—So Davy paid the
money—didn’t you, Davy?” And Davy grinned sheepishly.
“Even so,” she went on, “he came off better than poor Devon. They got
fifty thousand out of him, and sold him out, and he never got to
Congress after all! That was just before he concluded that America
wasn’t a fit place for a gentleman to live in.”
And so Mrs. Billy got started on the Devons! And after that came the
Havens and the Wymans and the Todds—it was midnight before she got
through with them all.