About a week later Hiram Wade, Ida's father, brought suit against
Vandover to recover twenty-five thousand dollars, claiming that his
daughter had killed herself because she had been ruined by him and that
he alone was responsible for her suicide.
Vandover had passed this week in an agony of grief over the loss of his
art, a grief that seemed even sharper than that which he had felt over
the death of his father. For this last calamity was like the death of a
child of his, some dear, sweet child, that might have been his companion
throughout all his life. At times it seemed to him impossible that his
art should fail him in this manner, and again and again he would put
himself at his easel, only to experience afresh the return of the
numbness in his brain, the impotency of his fingers.
He had begun little by little to pick up the course of his life once
more, and on a certain Wednesday morning was looking listlessly through
the morning paper as he sat in his window-seat. The room was delightful,
flooded with the morning sun, the Assyrian _bas-reliefs_ just touched
with a ruddy light, the Renaissance portraits looking down at him
through a fine golden haze; a little fire, just enough to blunt the
keenness of the early morning air, snapping in the famous tiled and
flamboyant stove. All about the room was a pleasant fragrance of coffee
and good tobacco.
Vandover caught sight of the announcement of the suit with a sudden
sharp intake of breath that was half gasp, half cry, starting up from
the window-seat, reading it over again and again with staring eyes.
It was a very short paragraph, not more than a dozen lines, lost at the
bottom of a column, among the cheap advertisements. It made no allusion
to any former stage of the affair; from its tone Ida might have killed
herself only the day before. It seemed hardly more than a notice that
some enterprising reporter, burrowing in the records at the City Hall,
had unearthed and brought to light with the idea that it might be of
possible interest to a few readers of the paper. But there was his name
staring back at him from out the gray blur of the type, like some
reflection of himself seen in a mirror. Insignificant as the paragraph
was, it seemed to Vandover as though it was the only item in the whole
paper. One might as well have trumpeted his crime through the streets.
"But twenty-five thousand dollars!" exclaimed Vandover, terrified.
"Where will _I_ find twenty-five thousand dollars?" And at once he fell
to wondering as to whether or no in default of payment he could be sent
to the penitentiary. The idea of winning the suit did not enter his mind
an instant; he did not even dream of fighting it.
For the moment it was like fire driving out fire. He forgot the loss of
his art, his mind filled only with the sense of the last disaster. What
could he do? Twenty-five thousand dollars! It would ruin him. A cry of
exasperation, of rage at his own folly, escaped him. "Ah, what a fool
I've been!"
For an hour he raged to and fro in the delightful sunlit room, pacing
back and forth in its longest dimension between the bamboo tea-table and
the low bookcase, a thousand different plans and projects coming and
going in his head. As his wits steadied themselves he began to see that
he must consult at once with some lawyer--Field, of course--perhaps
something could be done; a clever lawyer might make out a case for him
after all. But all at once he became convinced that Field would not
undertake his defence; he knew he had no case; so what could Field do
for him? He would have to tell him the truth, and he saw with absolute
clearness that the lawyer would refuse to try to defend him. The thing
could not honourably be done. But, then, what _should_ he do? He must
have legal advice from some quarter.
He was still in this state of perplexity when Charlie Geary arrived,
pounding on the door and opening it immediately afterward as was his
custom.
"Hello!" said Vandover, surprised. "Hello, Charlie! is that you?"
"Say," exclaimed Geary without returning his greeting, holding up his
hand as if to interrupt him; "say, have you seen your lawyer yet--seen
_any_ lawyer?"
"No," answered Vandover, shaking his head gravely; "no, I've only this
minute read about it in the paper." He was glad that Geary had come; at
once he felt a desire to throw this burden upon his chum's shoulders,
to let him assume the management of the affair, just as in the old
college days he had willingly, weakly, submitted to the dictatorship of
the shrewder, stronger man who smoothed out his difficulties for him,
and extricated him from all his scrapes. He knew Geary to be full of
energy and resource, and he had confidence in his ability as a lawyer,
even though he was so young in years and experience. Besides this, he
was his friend, his college chum; for all Geary's disagreeable qualities
he knew he would do the right thing by him now.
"You're the one man of all others I wanted to see," he exclaimed as he
gripped his hand. "By George! I'm glad you have come. Here, sit down and
let's talk this over." Geary took the big leather chair behind the desk,
and Vandover flung himself again upon the window-seat. It was as if the
two were back in the room in Matthew's; hundreds of times in those days
they had occupied precisely these positions, Geary bending over at the
study table, intent, nervous, very keen, Vandover lounging idly upon the
window-seat, resting easily on his elbow listening to the other man's
advice.
"Now, what must I do, Charlie?" Vandover began. "See my lawyer, I
suppose? But do you think a lawyer like Field would take my case? You
know I haven't a leg to stand on."
"But you haven't seen him?" inquired Geary sharply. "Haven't seen
anybody about it?" Vandover shook his head. "Sure?" insisted Geary
anxiously.
"Why, I have only just heard about it twenty minutes ago," protested
Vandover. "Why are you so particular about that?" he added. Then Geary
exploded his mine.
"Because," he said, with a smile of triumph that he could not restrain,
"because we are the counsel for the other side. I am on the case."
Vandover bounded from the window-seat speechless with astonishment,
bitterly disappointed. "_You?_ he shouted. Geary slowly nodded his head,
enjoying Vandover's bewilderment. Vandover dropped back upon the
cushions again, staring at him wildly with growing suspicion and anger.
He would not have thought it possible that Geary could so sacrifice
their old friendship to his own personal interest. The two continued
staring at each other across the table for a moment. In the silence
they heard the long rumble of a cable-car passing the house, and the
persistent jangling of its bell as it approached the street crossing. A
grocery wagon went up the side street, the horses' hoofs making a
cadenced clapping sound upon the asphalt.
"Well," exclaimed Vandover scornfully, "I suppose that's business, but I
would call it damned unkind!"
"Now, look here, old man," returned Geary consolingly. "Don't you take
the monkey-wrench off the safety valve like that. What am I here for if
it isn't to help you? Maybe you don't know that this is a mighty
unprofessional thing to do. Ah, you bet, if old Beale knew this I would
get it right in the neck. Don't you suppose I can help you more as
Wade's lawyer than I could as yours? And now that's the very first thing
I've got to tell you--to keep this dark, that I have seen you. I can't
do anything for you if you don't promise that."
"Oh, that's all right," returned Vandover, reassured. "That's all right,
you can--"
"It's not considered the right thing to do," Geary continued, not
heeding Vandover's answer, "but I just do it because"--he began to make
awkward gestures with both his hands--"because we're old friends, like
that. That was the very first thing I thought of when Beale Jr. told me
that we two had the case--that I could get you out of this hole better
as Wade's lawyer than as your own. Ah, you bet, I was clever enough to
see that the first thing."
"I'm sure it was awfully good of you, old man," said Vandover sincerely.
"I'm in a lot of trouble nowadays!"
"Well, now don't you bother, Van," answered Geary consolingly. "I guess
we can pull you out of this all right." He drew up to the table, looking
about from side to side. "Got any writing paper concealed about the
premises?" he asked. Vandover pushed him over his writing pad, and
Geary, taking the cap from his fountain pen, began asking a series of
questions, taking down his answers in shorthand. After he had asked him
as to his age, length of residence in the city, his property, and some
few other technical matters, he leaned back in his chair and said:
"Now, let's hear your side of the story, Van. I don't suppose you like
to go over the thing again, but you see I ought to know." Vandover told
of the affair, Geary making notes as he went along. It was nearly noon
before their interview was at an end. Then Geary gathered up the papers
and reached for his hat and stick, saying:
"Well, now, that's all we can do to-day. I think I'll be up to see you
again day after to-morrow, in the afternoon. Beale Jr. and I have a date
with Mr. Wade again to-morrow, I think, and I can talk to you more
definitely after that. You know this is the devil of a thing to do," he
suddenly exclaimed apprehensively, "this playing back and forth between
the two parties like this; regularly dishonourable, don't you know?"
"If you think it's dishonourable," said Vandover as he accompanied Geary
to the door, "if you think it's dishonourable, Charlie, why, don't do
it! I don't want to ask you to do anything dishonourable for me."
"Oh, that's all right," replied Geary uneasily; "I had just as soon do
it for you, only listen to this: don't you say a word about the case to
anybody, not to your lawyer, nor to anybody. If Field should write to
you, you tell him you have counsel already. And, look here! you may have
the reporters up here pretty soon, and don't you open your face to them;
you mind that; don't you let them get a thing out of you. And there's
another thing you must understand: I'm not your lawyer, of course; you
see that. I could be disbarred if I was lawyer for both sides. It's like
this, you see: I'm Wade's lawyer--at least the firm I am with are his
lawyers--and of course I'm acting in Wade's interest. But you're an old
chum of mine, and if I can I'm going to try and make it easier for you.
You understand, don't you?"
"Yes, I understand, Charlie," answered Vandover, "and you are just a
brick."
Vandover passed the rest of the day in his sitting-room, the suspense of
the situation slowly screwing his nerves tenser and tenser. He walked
for hours back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back, his head
bent down, his forehead drawn into a frown of anxiety and exasperation,
or he stood for a long time at the window looking out into the street
with eyes that saw nothing. At supper that night he found that his
appetite had left him; the very thought of food revolted him. He
returned to his room between seven and eight o'clock, his body and mind
completely fagged, feeling a crying need of some diversion, some escape
from the thoughts that had been hounding him all day.
He made up his mind to read a little before going to bed, and all at
once remembered a book that he had once begun a long time ago but had
never finished: the story of two men who had bought a wrecked opium ship
for fifty thousand dollars and had afterward discovered that she
contained only a few tins of the drug. He had never read on to find how
that story turned out. Suddenly he found himself repeating, "Twenty-five
thousand dollars, twenty-five thousand dollars--where will _I_ find
twenty-five thousand dollars?" He wondered if he would go to jail if he
failed to pay. His interest in the book was gone in a moment, and he
took up another of his favourite novels, the story of a boy at the time
of Christ, a Jewish boy unjustly condemned to the galleys, liberated
afterward, and devoting his life to the overthrow of his enemy, whom at
last he overcame and humbled, fouling him in a chariot race, all but
killing him.
He sat down in the huge leather chair, and, drawing it up to the piano
lamp and cocking his feet upon the table, began to read. In a few
moments the same numbness stole into his head like a rising fog, a
queer, tense feeling, growing at the back of his forehead and at the
base of his skull, a dulness, a strange stupefying sensation as of some
torpid, murky atmosphere. He looked about him quickly; all the objects
in the range of his vision--the corner of the desk, the corduroy couch,
the low bookcase with Flossie's yellow slipper and Barye's lioness upon
it--seemed to move back and stand upon the same plane; the objects
themselves appeared immovable enough, but the sensation of them in his
brain somewhere behind his eyes began to move about in a slow, dizzy
whirl. The old touch of unreasoning terror came back, together with a
sudden terror of the spirit, a sickening sinking of the heart, a
loathing of life, terrible beyond words.
Vandover started up, striving to keep himself in hand, fighting against
a wild desire to rush about from wall to wall, shrieking and waving his
arms. Over and over again he exclaimed, "Oh, _what_ is the matter with
me?" The strangeness of the thing was what unsettled and unnerved him.
He had all the sensations of terror, but without any assignable reason,
and this groundless fear became in the end the cause of a new fear: he
was afraid of this fear that was afraid of nothing.
Very gradually, however, the crisis passed away. He became a little
calmer, and as he was mixing himself a glass of whisky and water at the
sideboard he decided that he would go to bed. He was sure that he would
be better for a good night's rest; evidently his nerves were out of
order; it would not do for him to read late at night. He realized all at
once that his mind and body alike were exhausted.
He passed a miserable night, dozing and waking at alternate hours until
three o'clock, when he found it impossible to get to sleep; hour after
hour he lay flat on his back staring open-eyed into the darkness,
listening to the ticking of the clock, the mysterious footsteps that
creaked the floors overhead, and the persistent drip of a water faucet.
Outside in the street he heard at long intervals the rattling of wheels
as the early milk wagons came and went; a dog began to bark, three gruff
notes repeated monotonously at exact intervals; all at once there was a
long muffled roll and an abrupt clacking noise; it ceased, then broke
out again sharply, paused once more, then recommenced, settling to a
prolonged minor hum; the cable was starting up; it was almost morning,
the window of his room began to show a brighter blur in the darkness,
while very far off he could hear the steady puffing of a locomotive. As
the first cable-car trundled by the house he dropped off to sleep for
the last time, being waked again toward nine o'clock by the sound of
some one shovelling coal outside under his window, the shovel clinking
and rasping upon the stone sidewalk.
He felt a little refreshed, but as he entered the dining-room for his
late breakfast the smell of food repulsed him; his appetite was gone; it
was impossible for him to eat. Toward eleven o'clock that same morning
he was pottering idly about his sitting-room, winding his clock and
shaking down the ashes in the tiled flamboyant stove; his mind was still
busy going over for the hundredth time all the possibilities of Hiram
Wade's suit, and he was just wondering whether something in the way of a
compromise might not be arranged, when with the suddenness of a blow
between the eyes the numbness in his head returned, together with the
same unreasoning fear, the same depression of spirits, the same fearful
sinking of the heart. What! it was coming back again, this strange
attack, coming back even when his attention was not concentrated, even
when there was no unusual exertion of his brain!
Then the torment began. This time the crisis did not pass off; from now
on it persisted continually. Vandover began to feel strange. At first
the room looked unfamiliar to him, then his own daily life no longer
seemed recognizable, and, finally, all of a sudden, it was the whole
world, all the existing order of things, that appeared to draw off like
a refluent tide, leaving him alone, abandoned, cast upon some fearful,
mysterious shore.
Nothing seemed worth while; all the thousand little trivial things that
made up the course of his life and in which he found diversion and
amusement palled upon him. A fearful melancholia settled over him, a
despair, an abhorrence of living that could not be uttered. This only
was during the day. It was that night that Vandover went down into the
pit.
He went to bed early, his brain in a whirl, his frame worn out as if
from long physical exertion. He was just dropping into a grateful sleep
when his whole body twitched suddenly with a shock and a recoil of all
his nerves; in an instant he was broad awake, panting and exhausted as
if from a long run. Once more he settled himself upon the pillow, and
once more the same leap, the same sharp spasm of his nerves caught him
back to consciousness with the suddenness of a relaxed spring. At last
sleep was out of the question; his drowsiness of the early part of the
evening passed away, and he lay back, his hands clasped behind his head,
staring up into the darkness, his thoughts galloping incessantly through
his brain, suffering without pain as he had never imagined a human being
could suffer though racked with torture from head to heel.
From time to time a slow torsion and crisping of all his nerves,
beginning at his ankles, spread to every corner of his body till he had
to shut his fists and teeth against the blind impulse to leap from his
bed screaming. His hands felt light and, as he told himself, "jumpy."
All at once he felt a peculiar sensation in them: they seemed to swell,
the fingers puffing to an enormous size, the palms bulging, the whole
member from the wrist to the nails distended like a glove when one has
blown into it to straighten it out. Then he had a feeling that his head
was swelling in the same way. He had to rub his hands together, to pass
them again and again over his face to rid himself of the fancy.
But the strange numb feeling at the base of the skull did not keep him
from thinking--he would have been glad if it had--and now at last when
the terror overcame him it was no longer causeless; he knew now what he
feared--he feared that he was going mad.
It was the punishment that he had brought upon himself, some fearful
nervous disease, the result of his long indulgence of vice, his vile
submission to the brute that was to destroy his reason; some collapse of
all his faculties, beginning first with that which was highest, most
sensitive--his art--spreading onward and downward till he should have
reached the last stages of idiocy. It was Nature inexorably exacting. It
was the vast fearful engine riding him down beneath its myriad spinning
wheels, remorselessly, irresistibly.
The dreadful calamities that he had brought upon himself recoiled upon
his head, crushing him to the dust with their weight of anguish and
remorse: Ida Wade's suicide, his father's death, his social banishment,
the loss of his art, Hiram Wade's lawsuit menacing him with beggary, and
now this last, this approaching insanity. It was no longer fire driving
out fire; the sense of all these disasters seemed to come back upon him
at once, as keen, as bitter as when they had first befallen. He had told
himself that he did not believe in a hell. Could there be a worse hell
than this?
But all at once, without knowing why, moved by an impulse, a blind,
resistless instinct, Vandover started up in bed, raising his clasped
hands above him, crying out, "Oh, help me! Why don't you _help_ me? You
can if you only will!" Who was it to whom he had cried with such
unerring intuition? He gave no name to this mysterious "You," this
strange supernatural being, this mighty superhuman power. It was the cry
of a soul in torment that does not stop to reason, the wild last hope
that feels its own helplessness, that responds to an intuition of a
force outside of itself--the force that can save it in its time of
peril.
Trembling, his hands still clasped above him, Vandover waited for an
answer, waited for the miracle. In the tortured exalted state of his
nerves he seemed suddenly possessed of a sixth sense; he fancied that he
would know, there in that room, in a few seconds, while yet his hands
remained clasped above his head. It was his last hope: if this failed
him there was nothing left. Still he waited; he felt that he should know
when the miracle came, that he would suddenly be filled with a sense of
peace, of quiet joy. Still he waited--there was nothing, nothing but the
vast silence, the unbroken blackness of the night, a night that was to
last forever. There was no answer, nothing but the deaf silence, the
blind darkness. But in a moment he felt that the very silence, the very
lack of answer, was answer in itself; there was nothing for him. Even
that vast mysterious power to which he had cried could not help him now,
_could_ not help him, could not stay the inexorable law of nature, could
not reverse that vast terrible engine with its myriad spinning wheels
that was riding him down relentlessly, grinding him into the dust. And
afterward? After the engine had done its work, when that strange other
time should come, that other life, what then? No, not even then, nothing
but outer darkness then and the gnashing of teeth, nothing but the deaf
silence, nothing but the blind darkness, nothing but the unbroken
blackness of an eternal night.
It was the end of everything! With a muffled cry, "Oh, I can't stand
this!" Vandover threw himself from his bed, groping his way out into the
sitting-room. By this time he was only conscious of a suffering too
great to be borne, everything else was blurred as in a thick mist. For
nearly an hour he stumbled about in the darkened room, bruising himself
against the furniture, dazed, numb, trying in vain to find the drawer of
the desk where he kept his father's revolver. At last his hand closed
upon it, gripping it so tightly that the hundreds of little nicks and
scratches made by the contact of the tacks and nails which he had
hammered with it nipped and bit into his palm like the teeth of tiny
mice. A vague feeling of shame overcame him at the last moment: he had
no wish to be found sprawling upon the floor, dressed only in his
night-gown. He lit the gas and put on his bathrobe, drawing the cords
securely about his waist and neck.
When he turned about to pick up the revolver again he found that his
determination had weakened considerably, and he was obliged to reflect
again upon the wreck of his life and soul before he was back once more
to the proper pitch of resolution. It was five minutes to two, and he
made up his mind to kill himself when the clock struck the hour. He
spent the intervening moments in arranging the details of the matter. At
first he thought he would do it standing, but he abandoned that idea,
fearing to strike his head against the furniture as he fell. He was
about to decide upon the huge leather chair, when the remembrance of his
father's death made that impossible. He finally concluded to sit upon
the edge of his bed, leaning a little backward so as not to fall upon
the floor, and he dragged the bed out into the sitting-room, preferring
somehow to die there. For a moment the idea of lying at length upon the
bed occurred to him, but in an instant he recoiled from it, horrified at
the thought of the death that struck from above; no, it would be best to
sit upon the edge of the bed, falling backward with the shot. Then he
wondered as to which it should be, his heart or his head; evidently the
head was the better; there upon the right side in the little hollow of
the temple, and the next moment he found himself curiously touching and
pressing the spot with his fingers. All at once he heard the little
clicking noise that the clock makes a minute or so before the hour. It
was almost two; he sat down upon the edge of the bed, cocking the
revolver, waiting for the clock to strike. An idea came to him, and he
looked at the calendar that stood at the right of the clock upon the top
of the low bookcase. It was the twelfth of April, Thursday; that, then,
was to be the date of his death--Thursday, April twelfth, at two in the
morning, so it would read upon his gravestone. For an instant the
awfulness of the thing he was to do came upon him, and the next instant
he found himself wondering if they still coursed jack-rabbits with
greyhounds down at Coronado the way they used to do when he was there.
All at once the clock struck two, and at the very last instant a
strange impulse to seat himself before the mirror came upon him. He drew
up a chair before it, watching his reflection intently, but even as he
raised the revolver he suddenly changed his purpose without knowing why,
and all at once crammed the muzzle into his mouth. He drew the trigger.
He heard no sound of a report; he felt no shock, but a great feebleness
ran throughout his limbs, a relaxing and weakening of all his muscles;
his eyes were open and he saw everything small and seemingly very far
off as through the reversed end of an opera-glass. Suddenly he fainted.
When Vandover came to himself again it was early morning. The room was
full of daylight, but the gas was still burning. Little by little the
fearful things of the night came back to him; he realized that he had
shot himself, and he waited for the end, not daring to move, his eyes
closed, his hand still gripping the scratched butt of the revolver in
his lap. For a long time he lay back in the chair, motionless, his
consciousness slowly returning like an incoming tide. At length he
started to his feet with an expression of scorn and incredulity; he was
as sound as ever, there was neither scratch nor scar upon him; he had
not shot himself after all.
Curiously, he looked at the revolver, throwing open the breech--the
cylinder was empty; he had forgotten to load it. "What a fool!" he
exclaimed, laughing scornfully, and still laughing he walked to the
centre of the room under the chandelier and turned out the gas.
But when he turned about, facing the day once more, facing that day and
the next and the next throughout all the course of his life, the sense
of his misery returned upon him in its full strength and he raised his
clenched fist to his eyes, shutting out the light. Ah, no, he could not
endure it--the horror of life overpassed the horror of death; he could
not go on living. A new thought had come to him. Wretched as he was, he
saw that in time his anguish of conscience, even his dread of losing his
reason, would pass from him; he would become used to them; yes, even
become used to the dread of insanity, and then he would return once more
to vice, return once more into the power of the brute, the perverse and
evil monster that was knitted to him now irrevocably, part for part,
fibre for fibre. He saw clearly that nothing could save him, he had had
his answer that night, there was to be no miracle. Was it not right,
then, that he should destroy himself? Was it not even his duty? The
better part of him seemed to demand the act; should he not comply while
there yet was any better part left? In a little while the brute was to
take all.
On the shelves above his washstand Vandover found the cartridges in a
green pasteboard box, and loaded all the chambers of the revolver,
carefully. He closed the breech; but as he was about to draw back the
hammer all his courage, all his resolution, crumbled in an instant like
a tower of sand. He did not dare to shoot himself--he was afraid. The
night before he had been brave enough; how was it now that he could not
call up the same courage, the same determination? When he thought over
the wreck, the wretched failure of his life, the dreadful prospect of
the future years, his anguish and his terror were as keen as ever. But
now there was a shrinking of his every nerve from the thought of
suicide, the instinctive animal fear of death, stronger than himself.
His suffering had to go on, had to run its course, even death would not
help him. Let it go on, it was only the better part of him that was
suffering; in a little while this better part would be dead, leaving
only the brute. It would die a natural death without any intervention
from him. Was there any need of suicide? Suicide! Great God! his whole
life had been one long suicide.
* * * * *
That same morning Charlie Geary had eaten a very thick underdone steak
for breakfast after enjoying a fine long sleep of eight hours. Toward
eight o'clock he went downtown. He did not take a car; he preferred to
walk; it helped his digestion and it gave him exercise. At night he
walked home as well; that gave him an appetite; besides, with the ten
cents that he saved in this way, he bought himself a nice cigar that he
smoked in the evening to help digest his supper. He was very careful of
his health. Ah, you bet, one had to look out for one's health.
At the office that morning he had a long talk with Beale, Jr., as to
Hiram Wade's suit. The great firm of Beale & Storey, into whose office
Geary had been received, made a specialty of damage suits, and
especially those suits that were brought against a certain great
monopoly which it was claimed was ruining the city and the state; such a
case involving nearly a quarter of a million of dollars was now
occupying the attention of the heads of the firm and, indeed, of the
whole office. Hiram Wade's suit was assigned to the assistants. Beale,
Jr., was one of these, and Charlie Geary had managed to push himself
into the position of his confidential clerk. But Beale, Jr., himself
took little interest in the Wade suit; the suit against the great
monopoly was coming to a head; it was a battle of giants; the whole
office found itself embroiled, and little by little Beale, Jr., allowed
himself to be drawn into the struggle. The management of the Wade case
was given over to Geary's hands.
When he had first heard of his assignment to the case Geary had been
unwilling to act against his old chum, but it was the first legal affair
of any great importance with which he had been connected, and he was
soon devoured with an inordinate ambition to distinguish himself in the
eyes of the firm, to get a "lift," to take a long step forward toward
the end of his desires, which was to become one of the firm itself. He
knew he could make a brilliant success of the case. Geary was at this
time nearly twenty-eight, keen, energetic, immensely clever; and the
case against Vandover was strong. No one knew better than he himself how
intimate Vandover had been with Ida Wade; Vandover had told him much of
the details of their acquaintance. Besides this, a letter which Ida had
written to Vandover the day before her suicide had been found, torn in
three pieces, thrust between the leaves of one of the books that she
used to study at the normal school. It directly implicated Vandover--it
was evidence that could not be gainsaid. Geary had resolved to push the
case against his old chum. Vandover ought to see that with Geary it was
a matter of business; he, Geary, was only an instrument of the law; if
Geary did not take the case some other lawyer would. At any rate,
whether Van would see it in this light or not, Geary was determined to
take the case; it was too good an opportunity to let slip; he was going
to make his way in the law or he would know the reason why. Every man
for himself, that was what he said. It might be damned selfish, but it
was human nature; if he had to sacrifice Van, so much the worse. It was
evident that his old college chum was going to the dogs anyway, but come
whatever would, _he_, Geary, was going to be a _success_. Ah, you bet,
he would make his way and he would make his money.
Ever since he had come into his little patrimony Geary had been making
offers to Vandover for his block in the Mission. Geary would offer only
eight thousand dollars, but Brunt steadily advised Vandover against
listening to such a figure, assuring him that the property was valued at
twelve thousand six hundred. Vandover had often wondered at Geary's
persistence in the matter, and had often asked him what he could
possibly want of the block. But Geary was very vague in his replies,
generally telling Vandover that there was money in the investment if one
could and would give the proper attention to pushing it. He told
Vandover that he--Vandover--was no business man, which was the
lamentable truth, and would much prefer to live upon the interest of his
bonds rather than to be continually annoyed by defective plumbing,
complaints, and repairs. The truth of the matter was that Geary knew
that a certain immense boot and shoe concern was after the same piece of
property. The houses themselves were nothing to the boot and shoe
people; they wanted the land in order to build their manufactory upon
it. A siding of the railroad ran down the alley just back of the
property, a fact that hurt the lot for residence purposes, but that was
indispensable for the boot and shoe people. Geary knew that the heads of
the manufactory were determined to buy the lot, and he was sure that if
properly handled by clever brokers they could be induced to offer at
least one third more than its appraised valuation. It was a chance for a
fine speculation, and it was torture to Geary to think that Vandover, or
in fact any one besides himself, was going to profit by it.
The afternoon of the day upon which Hiram Wade had brought suit for
twenty-five thousand dollars, while Geary was pottering about his swivel
office chair with an oil can trying to find out where it creaked, a
brilliant idea had suddenly occurred to him, a stroke of genius, a
veritable inspiration. Why could he not make the Wade suit a machine
with which to force Vandover into the sale of the property?
His first idea had been to push the case so vigorously that Vandover
would surely lose it. But on second thought this course did not seem to
promise any satisfactory results. Geary knew very well that though Hiram
Wade had sued for twenty-five thousand dollars he could not recover more
than five thousand, if as much as that. Geary did not know the exact
state of Vandover's affairs, but he did not think that his chum would
sell any property in order to make the payment of damages. It was much
more likely that he would raise the five thousand, or whatever it might
be, by placing a second mortgage on some of his property. This, however,
was presuming that Wade would get judgment for about five thousand
dollars. But suppose that Vandover thought that Wade could actually
recover twenty-five thousand! Suppose that Geary himself should see
Vandover and induce him to believe such a story, and to settle the
affair out of court! Vandover was as ignorant of law as he was of
business. Geary might frighten him into a sale. Yet this plan seemed
very impracticable. In the first place, it would be unprofessional for
Geary to have an interview with Vandover under such circumstances, the
story was almost too monstrous even for Vandover's credibility, and
besides, Geary would not pay, could not pay twenty-five thousand for the
property. This last was a serious tangle. In order to get Vandover to
sell, Geary would have to represent the damage suit as involving a
larger sum of money than Geary was willing to give for the block, even a
far larger sum than that which the boot and shoe manufacturers could be
induced to pay for it. It seemed to be a deadlock. Geary began to see
that the whole idea was out of the question. Yet the desire of it came
back upon him again and again. He dwelt upon it constantly, smelling out
the chance for a "deal" somewhere in the tangle with the instinct of the
keen man of business. At last he seemed to have straightened it out. The
idea of a compromise came into his mind. What if Vandover and Hiram Wade
could be made to compromise upon eight thousand dollars! Geary would be
willing to pay Vandover eight thousand for the block. That was his
original offer. Wade, though he had sued for twenty-five thousand, could
easily be made to see that eight thousand was as much as he could
reasonably expect, and Geary knew the boot and shoe manufacturers would
pay fifteen thousand for the lot, perhaps more.
But in order to carry out the delicate and complicated affair it was
absolutely necessary to keep Vandover from seeing a lawyer. Geary knew
that any lawyer would fight the proposition of a compromise at eight
thousand dollars: five thousand was as much as Wade could possibly get
in court, and if judgment for such amount was rendered, Vandover's
counsel would advise him to raise the sum by mortgaging some property
instead of selling the block.
Yet as soon as Geary arrived at a solution of the problem, as soon as
the "deal" began to seem feasible, he commenced to hesitate. It was not
so much that the affair was crooked, that his rôle in it was, to say the
least, unprofessional, as it was the fact that Vandover was his old
college chum and that, to put the matter into plain words, Geary was
swindling his best friend out of a piece of property valued at twelve
thousand six hundred dollars, and preventing him from reselling the same
piece at a very advanced figure. Again and again he wished that it was
some other than Vandover; he told himself that in such case he would put
the screw on without the least compunction. All through one night Geary
was on the rack torn between his friendship for his chum and his
devouring, inordinate ambition to make his way and to make his pile. In
the end Vandover was sacrificed--the opportunity was too good--Geary
could not resist the chance for a "deal." Ah, you bet, just think of it,
after all, not only would Vandover believe that Geary was doing him a
great service, but the office would be delighted with him for winning
his first case, they would get a heavy fee from Wade, and he would
nearly double his money invested in the block in the Mission. As soon as
he had made up his mind to put the "deal" through, he had seen Vandover
at his rooms early in the morning and had induced him to promise not to
engage any other counsel and in general keep very quiet about the whole
business.
The day after, he and Beale, Jr., had an appointment with Hiram Wade,
but toward noon Beale, Jr., disappeared, leaving word for Geary that he
had gone to court with his father to hear the closing arguments in the
great suit against the monopoly, the last struggle in the tremendous
legal battle that had embroiled the whole office; Geary was to use his
own judgment in the Wade case. Geary laboured with Hiram Wade all that
afternoon. The old fellow mistrusted him on account of his youth and his
inexperience, was unwilling to arrive at any definite conclusion without
the sanction of Geary's older associate, and for a long time would
listen to nothing less than ten thousand dollars, crying out that his
gray hairs had been dishonoured, and striking his palm upon his
forehead. Nothing could move him. He, also, had his ambitions; it was
his dream to own the carpet-cleaning establishment in which he now had
but a three-fourths interest. Summer was coming, the time of year when
people were going into the country, leaving their carpets to be cleaned
in their absence. If he could obtain complete ownership of his business
within the month he fancied that he saw an opportunity to make more
money than he had done before at any previous season.
"Why, I tell you, Mister Geary," he exclaimed indignantly, wagging his
head, "it would seem like selling my daughter's honour if we should
compromise at any less figure. I am a father. I--I have my feelings,
haven't I?"
"Well, now, it isn't like that at all, Mr. Wade," answered Geary, making
awkward gestures with both his hands. "It isn't what we _ought_ to get
out of him. Could any sum of money, could millions compensate you for
Miss Ida's death? I guess not. It's what we _can_ get. If this thing
comes into court we won't get but five thousand out of him; I'll tell
you that right now. He could raise that by a mortgage, easy; but if we
compromise we can squeeze him for eight thousand. You see, the fact that
we can act directly with him instead of through counsel makes it easier
for us. Of course, as I tell you, it isn't just the legal thing to do,
but I'm willing to do it for you because I think you've been wronged and
outraged."
Wade struck his hand to his head. "I tell you, he's brought dishonour
upon my gray hairs," he exclaimed.
"Exactly, of course, I understand how you feel," replied Geary, "but now
about this eight thousand? I tell you what I'll do." He had resolved to
stake everything upon one last hazard. "See here, Mr. Wade, there's a
difference, of course, between eight thousand dollars and ten thousand,
but the use of money is worth something, isn't it? And money down, cold
hard cash, is worth something, isn't it? Well, now, suppose you got that
eight thousand dollars money down within three days?"
Hiram Wade still demurred a little longer for the sake of his own
self-respect and his dishonoured hairs, but in the end it was agreed
that if the money was paid over to him in full before the end of the
following week he would be content and would agree to the compromise.
Eight thousand dollars would still be enough to buy out his partner's
interest, and even then he would have a little left over with which to
improve a certain steaming apparatus. If the amount was paid in full
within a week he could get control of the cleaning-works in time to
catch all of the summer trade.
Geary had calculated that this last argument would have its weight; the
great difficulty now was to get Vandover to sell at such a low figure
and upon such short notice. He almost despaired of his success in this
quarter; however, it all depended upon Vandover now.
Early in the forenoon of the next day Geary pounded on the door of
Vandover's sitting-room, pushing it open without waiting for an answer.
Vandover was lying in his shirt-sleeves on the corduroy divan under the
huge rug of sombre colours that hung against the wall, and he did not
get up as Geary came in; in fact, he hardly stirred.
"Hello!" cried Geary, closing the door with his heel. "Didn't expect to
find _you_ up so early. _I've_ been up since half-past six; had
breakfast at seven, fine cutlet, and then got down to the office at
twenty minutes of eight. How's that for rustling, hey?"
"Yes?" said Vandover, dully.
"But, say," exclaimed Geary, "what's all the matter with _you_? You look
all frazzled out, all pale around the wattles. Ah, you've been hitting
up a pace again. You're a bird, Van, there's no use talking! All night
racket this trip?".
"I suppose so," answered Vandover, never moving.
"But you _do_ look gone-in this morning, sure," continued Geary, seating
himself on the edge of the table and pushing back his hat. "Never saw
you looking so bad; you ought to be more careful, Van; there'll be a
smash some time. Ah, you bet a man ought to look out for his health. I
walk downtown every morning, and three times a week I take a cold shower
as soon as I get up. Ah, I tell you, that braces a fellow up; you ought
to try it; it's better than a dozen cocktails. You keep on getting thin
like you have for the past few days and I'll have to be calling you
Skinny Seldom-fed again, like we used to. Now, tell the truth, what time
did you get to bed last night? Did you go to bed at all?"
"No," replied Vandover with a long breath, looking vaguely at the
pipe-rack on the opposite wall.
"I thought as much," answered Geary. "Well, that's like you." He paused
a moment, and then went on, nervously gesturing with both his hands
simultaneously. "Well, I've had a long talk with Wade. I tell you, Van,
that old boy is as stubborn as a mule. You see, he knows he's got a
case. I couldn't talk him out of that. I'll tell you how it is,"
continued Geary, preparing to spring another mine; "he's found a letter
Ida wrote you the day before she killed herself." He paused to watch the
effect upon Vandover. Vandover waited for him to go on, but seeing that
he did not and that he expected him to say something, nodded his head
once and answered:
"I see."
"Don't you know, that letter that she wrote to you telling you how it
was, how she was fixed?" repeated Geary, puzzled and irritated at
Vandover's indifference.
"I know."
"Well, he's got it, anyhow," pursued Geary, "and of course that tells
against you. Well, I had a long talk with him yesterday afternoon and I
got him to compromise. Of course, you know in suits like this one a
party sues for a great deal more than he expects to get. At first you
know he said twenty-five thousand; that figure was decided upon at the
first interview he had with us. Of course, he could never get judgment
for that much. But he hung out at ten thousand; said it would be selling
his daughter if he took any less. Now I knew you couldn't raise that
much on any property you have, especially in these hard times--" Geary
paused for the fraction of an instant; he had thrown out the last remark
as a feeler, to see what Vandover would say; but his chum said nothing,
staring vaguely at the opposite wall, merely making a faint sign to show
that he understood, closing his eyes and bending his head. "And so,"
continued the other, "I jewed him down, and what do you suppose? Well,
sir, from twenty-five thousand I brought him right down to, say, eight
thousand. I could see that he had some scheme that he wants to go into
right away, and that he wants ready money, right on the nail, you know,
to carry it through. Ah, you bet, I was clever enough to see that. I
waltzed him right over when I began to speak of ready money, cash down.
As soon as he'd squeal I'd spring cold cash on him, money down, and he's
hit gravel like an ostrich. Well," he went on deliberately after a
pause, getting up from the table and standing before Vandover, his hands
in his pockets, "well, I think that's the best I can do for you, Van.
It's a good deal better than I expected, but I've done the best I could
for you, and I would advise you to see him on the proposition."
"All right," said Vandover. "Go ahead."
Geary was perplexed. "Well, you think that's a good thing, don't you?
You think I've done my best for you? You see it as I do, don't you?"
Vandover withdrew his eyes from the other wall, glancing under heavy
eyelids at Geary, and with a slight movement of his head and shoulders
replied:
"Of course."
"Have you got the money?" asked Geary eagerly; then, irritated at his
indiscretion, hastened to interrupt himself. "You see, he hasn't put his
proposition into writing yet, but it's like this: if you can pay him
eight thousand dollars in cash before the end of next week he'll sign a
document to the effect that he is satisfied."
"I've got no money," said Vandover quietly.
"I was afraid you wouldn't have," said Geary, "but you can raise it
somewhere. You had better close with the old man as soon as you can,
Van, while he's in the mood for it; you'll make a clear two thousand by
it. You can see that as well as I can. Now, where can you--how is your
property fixed? Let's see! Here's the statement you made to me the other
day," continued Geary, drawing his shorthand notes from his portfolio.
"How about this piece on California Street, the one that you have
rented, the homestead, you know?"
"Yes, there's that," answered Vandover, changing the position of his
head upon his clasped hands.
"But that's pretty well papered up already," returned Geary, consulting
his notes. "You couldn't very well raise another mortgage on that.'"
"I'd forgotten," answered Vandover. "There's the block in the Mission.
He can have _that_."
Geary began to tremble with excitement. It looked as though he might be
able to make the deal after all. But the next instant he grew
suspicious. Vandover's indifference puzzled him. Might he not have some
game of his own? The idea of playing off his cleverness against that of
an opponent strung his nerves in an instant; the notion of an impending
struggle was almost an inspiration, and his innate desire of getting the
better of a competitor, even though it was his closest friend, aroused
his wits and sharpened his faculties like a stimulant. He had no
hesitancy in sacrificing his chum. It was business now; friendship
ceased to be a factor in the affair. Ah, Van was going to be foxy; he'd
show him that he could be foxy, too.
"He can have it?" echoed Geary. "You don't mean to sign it over to him
bodily?"
"Oh, I suppose it could be mortgaged," answered Vandover.
"Yes, that's the idea," returned Geary. "You want me to figure that out
for you? I can just as well as not. Well, now, let's see," he went on,
settling himself at the desk, and figuring upon a sheet of Vandover's
stamped letter-paper. "The banks will never give you more than two
thirds of the appraised value; that's as much as we can expect; that
would come to--well, let's see--that would come to six thousand on that
piece; then you could mortgage something else to make up the
difference."
"Wouldn't it be more than six thousand?" asked Vandover with a little
show of interest. "I think that block has been appraised at something
over twelve thousand."
"Ah, yes," returned Geary, putting his chin in the air, "that was your
agent's valuation five years ago; but you know property out there, in
fact, property all over the city, what they call inside property, has
been going right down for the last ten years. That's what I've always
been telling you. You couldn't possibly get more than nine thousand for
that block to-day. You see the railroad there hurts it."
"I suppose so," replied Vandover. "I've heard the governor say as much
in his time."
"Of course," exclaimed Geary, delighted at this unexpected turn.
"Well, then, he can have my bonds," said Vandover. "I've got eighty-nine
hundred in bonds; he can have those. Let him have anything he wants."
"Oh, don't touch your bonds," answered Geary. "Hang on to those. Bonds
are always good--U.S. bonds. You don't want to sell those, Van. You see,
the homestead is already mortgaged. And, besides, you know, too, that
the banks are asking an awful big per cent. for mortgages on real
estate; it's seven and a half nowadays. Don't sell your bonds. I'll tell
you why: U.S. bonds are always good; they never depreciate, but it's
different with realty, especially in this city just now. It's been
depreciating ever since your father's time, and it's going to go right
on depreciating. If you want to sell anything, sell your realty before
it gets any lower. Now you don't want to sell your home, do you? You
don't like that idea. You've lived there so long, and then what would
you do with the furniture; besides, the rent of that," he glanced again
at his notes, "is bringing you in a good hundred and twenty-five a
month. If you've got to sell at all, why not sell your Mission block?"
"All right," said Vandover, as if wearied by Geary's clamour, "I'll sign
it over to him."
"No, that's not the idea at all," Geary insisted. "He wants the ready
money; he don't want depreciated real estate. You'll have to find a
purchaser in the next week if you possibly can in such a short time, and
make over the money to Wade. But if you can't sell in that time you will
have to dig up ten thousand instead of eight. It's a hard position for
you, Van; it's just a chance, you know, but I thought I would give you
the benefit of that chance. If you want to give me a power of attorney
I'll try and sell it for you."
"I guess Brunt would do that," replied Vandover.
"Yes," retorted Geary, watchful as a lynx, "but they would charge you a
big commission. Of course _I_ wouldn't think of asking you anything more
than the actual costs. I am afraid that they would try to sell it at
auction, too, if they knew you had to realize on it in so short a time,
and it would go for a mere song then; you know how it is."
"I thought," inquired Vandover, "that you wanted that property."
"Yes," replied Geary, hesitating, "I--I did want to buy it of you once;
well, for that matter I do now. But you know how it is with me."
"I might as well sell it to you as to any one else," returned Vandover.
"Well, now, it's like this, Van," said Geary. "I know that block is
worth nine thousand dollars; I won't deceive you. But I can only give
you eight thousand for it. That's all the money I've got. But I'm not
going to take advantage of your position to jew you down. I want the
block, I'll admit that, but I'm not going to have you sacrifice it for
me, or for any one else. I think you can get nine thousand for it. I
know you could if we had a little more time, and I'm not sure but what I
could find a purchaser for you within the next week that would give you
nine thousand."
"Oh, I don't care, Charlie; I'm sick of everything; eight thousand, nine
thousand, anything you like; take it at your own figure."
Geary began to tremble once more, and this time his excitement was so
great that he hardly dared to trust himself to speak; his breath grew
short, his hands in his pockets twitched nervously, and curled
themselves into fists, his heart seemed to him to beat high in his
throat; he hesitated long, pretending to deliberate as he steadied
himself.
Vandover remained silent, his hands still clasped back of his head,
staring at the opposite wall with eyes that saw nothing. The little
clock began to strike ten.
"I don't know, Van," said Geary; "I don't like to do this, and yet I
would like to help you out of this muss. You see, if I should ever
benefit by the property you would feel as though I had taken advantage
of you at this time and worked a flim-flam on you!"
"Oh, I'll look out for that," returned Vandover.
"No, no, I don't feel quite right about it," answered Geary, wagging his
head and shutting his eyes. "Better see what we can do at a forced
sale."
"Why, don't you see you would be doing me a favour?" said Vandover
wearily. "I _ask_ you to buy the block. I don't care what your figure
is!"
Once more Geary hesitated, for the last time going over the whole deal
in his mind from beginning to end, testing it, looking for weak points.
It was almost perfect. Suppose the boot and shoe people did not buy the
lot? He could resell it elsewhere, even below its appraised value and
yet make money by the transaction; the lot was cheap at ten thousand; it
might bring twelve; even as an ordinary, legitimate speculation it was
to be desired at such a figure. Suppose the boot and shoe people backed
out entirely, suppose even he could not find another purchaser for the
property, why, then, he could hold on to it; the income from the rents
was fully 10 per cent. of the price he would have paid for it.
"Well, Van," he said at last, making a slow, awkward gesture with his
left hand, all the fingers extended, "well, I'll take you up--but I
don't feel as though I should--" He suddenly interrupted himself with a
burst of sincerity, exclaiming: "Sure, old man, if I had nine thousand
I'd give it to you for the block, that's straight goods." He felt that
he was conscientious in saying this. It was true he would have given
nine thousand if he had had it. For that matter he might have given ten
or twelve.
"Can't we settle the whole matter to-day?" said Vandover. "Right
here--now. I'm sick of it, sick of everything. Let's get it done with."
Geary nearly bounded from his seat. He had been wondering how he might
accomplish this very thing. "All right," he said briskly, "no reason in
waiting." He had seen to it that he should be prepared to close the sale
the moment that Vandover was willing. Long ago, when he had first had
the idea of buying the block, he had spent a day in the offices of the
county recorder, the tax collector, and the assessor, assuring himself
of the validity of the title, and only two days ago he had gone over the
matter again in order to be sure that no encumbrances had been added to
the block in the meanwhile. He found nothing; the title was clear.
"Isn't this rather rushing the thing through?" he asked. "Maybe you
might regret it afterward. Don't you want to take two or three days to
think it over?"
"No."
"Sure now?" persisted Geary.
"But I've _got_ to sell before three days," answered Vandover.
"Otherwise he'll want ten thousand."
"That's a fact," admitted the other. "Well," he went on, "if your mind's
made up, why--we can go right ahead. As I say, there's no reason for
waiting; better take up Wade while he's in the mood for it. You see, he
hasn't signed any proposition as yet, and he might go back on us."
Vandover drew a long breath and got up slowly, heavily, from the couch,
saying:
"What's the odds to me what I sell for? _I_ don't get the money."
"Well, what do you say if we go right down to a notary's office and put
this thing right through," Geary suggested.
"Come on, then."
"Have you got your abstract here, the abstract of the block?" Vandover
nodded. "Better bring it along, then," said Geary.
The office of the notary adjoined those of the firm of Beale & Storey;
in fact, he was in a sense an attaché of the great firm and transacted a
great deal of legal business for them. Vandover and Geary fell upon him
in an idle moment. A man had come to regulate the water filter, which
took the place of an ice cooler in a corner of one of the anterooms, and
while he was engaged at his work the notary stood at his back, abusing
him and exclaiming at the ineffectiveness of the contrivance. The notary
was a middle-aged man with a swollen, purple face; he had a toothpick
behind each ear and wore an office coat of gray linen, ripped at the
shoulders.
Then the transfer was made. It was all settled in less than half an
hour, unceremoniously, almost hastily. For the sake of form Geary signed
a check for eight thousand dollars which Vandover in his turn made over
to Hiram Wade. The notary filled out a deed of grant, bargain, and sale,
pasting on his certificate of acknowledgment as soon as Vandover and
Geary had signed. Geary took the abstract, thrusting it into his
breast-pocket. As far as Vandover was concerned, the sale was complete,
but he had neither his properly nor its equivalent in money.
"Well," declared Geary at length, "I guess that's all there is to be
done. I'll get a release from old man Wade and send it to you to-morrow
or next day. Now, let's go down to the Imperial and have a drink on it."
They went out, but the notary returned to the anteroom, turning the
spigot of the filter to right and left, frowning at it suspiciously,
refusing to be satisfied.