When the two emissaries had left the library Hamilton Burton sat before
his hearth and shook loose the reins of imagination. He burned driftwood
in this room and as his eyes dwelt on the shooting tongues of blue flame
that licked around the logs his dreams absorbed him. Yamuro, his
Japanese valet, slipped in to see if his master required him--but his
footfall was noiseless, and when he had tiptoed close enough to study
the face, he departed without speaking. The lips in the yellow face
parted in a grin that bared a spread of strong, white teeth. The eyes
between high cheekbones glistened in dark slits and in his throat, too
low to be heard, a little grunt voiced Yamuro's fanatical admiration.
Had Hamilton Burton been an emperor in the field Yamuro would have asked
no greater privilege than to interpose his body between his idolized
master and all danger. Such was the power of this wholly selfish but
dominant personality. Outside the Oriental chuckled to himself, "No
worry.... Him got great thoughts."
Yet Hamilton was after all only planning an entertainment. When he had
captured the control of Coal and Ore he would stand within grasping
distance of his ideal of one-man power. He would have rocked the temple
of money and snatched out of Malone's teeth Consolidated's marrow bone.
That would be a time for celebration. It would be vastly amusing to
shake the hands of the vanquished and see them bite back the curses
that were welling up from their hearts. While seeming only the host he
would in reality be the victor--exacting tribute.
That his victory depended on undertakings yet to be accomplished and
beset with gigantic hazards did not disquiet him. Over him shone his
Star!
His revery snapped like a punctured balloon at the sound of the
door-bell and when Harrow ushered in his father, Hamilton rose with a
smile of welcome on his lips.
The elder Burton entered with a heightened flush on his full cheeks and
the son for just an instant studied him with a shrewd appraisement. A
man who has, by the custom of decades, spent each day from sunrise to
sunset at hard labor cannot find himself idle without seeking an outlet
of some description.
If Tom Burton were to decay here in inactivity, he might as well decay
genially, taking his pleasure by the way. He was doing it. Like a
gentleman and an officer he tippled the evenings out. Rarely was he
drunk beyond a genteel limitation--and after an advanced hour he was
rarely less so. In slow and mellow fashion he was ripening into slothful
and comfortable atrophy. His well-shaven face was beginning to reveal
those small discolored spots that are the subtle brands of Bacchus.
Under the eyes that had once been like the eyes of a hawk, small and
puffy sacks were discernible.
"Well, damn it," Hamilton exculpated to himself, "it was a long time
before he had any fun." Then aloud he inquired, "Whose coffers did you
fill this evening?"
Tom Burton straightened up a shade pompously.
"I think my game is--er--on a par with that of others--but luck can
hardly be controlled."
"The question is," suggested the son, "whether you enjoyed yourself."
"Reasonably well, thank you." The elder man looked about the room and
spoke complainingly. "I don't see any whiskey and soda about. Will you
please ring for some, Hamilton? I'm thirsty."
"It's there on the side-table." Hamilton followed the other with his
eyes and noted the greedy unsteadiness of the fingers that grasped the
decanter.
"Do you think you need that drink, father?" he inquired.
The elder man glanced up while the liquor spilled out of the poised
bottle--and missed the glass. "Why not?" he demanded. "It's about time
for a nightcap. I haven't had anything to speak of this evening."
Hamilton nodded with a shrug, but his brows drew themselves in a pained
wrinkle. He would not willingly admit doubt of his father's
truthfulness, yet the statement lacked all quality of conviction.
The son did not reflect that of the dry rot in old Tom's soul this
deception was a typical symptom. He knew that in the old days Tom
Burton's word had been a synonym for inflexible honesty; that it was as
good as collateral at the bank.
Then, sitting at ease, the well-groomed old gentleman held his glass
before him and gazed at the colors which the firelight wakened in its
amber contents. His face wore the contentment of one whose mood has been
artificially mellowed and whose thoughts are more glowing than reliable.
He cleared his throat and began to speak importantly.
"My boy, a great idea has come to me--a splendid conception, I may say.
I have for all these years been of very little service to you, but I now
see the way to make amends ... to, as I might say, become an asset
rather than a liability--a sharer in your activities."
Hamilton Burton was standing by the table, studying the face of his
father, and at the words his eyes darkened. His question was by no means
freighted with pleasure or expectancy as he coolly inquired, "Indeed?"
Tom Burton nodded with much gravity.
"Yes. The other day you were relating to me some matters of business
which were quite--er--interesting. I have since given them mature
thought and I find that I have evolved a method by which you may, with
my suggestions, even improve on your original plan of procedure."
"Stop!" The son wheeled and faced the elder man with a face grown
suddenly wrathful. As Tom Burton looked up in surprise, Hamilton went on
rapidly and dictatorially. "I never quarrel with my family. It is my
pleasure to regard them first in all things, but one thing I will not
permit even from them. It is the first time it has ever become necessary
to say this to you, sir. I hope it will be the last."
"Why, what's the matter, my son? I was only about to suggest that--"
"Well, don't do it. The one thing I will not permit is business
interference. I need no collaborator. Once--just once Paul made that
same mistake. He presumed to offer a suggestion, Paul--who couldn't
figure compound interest--offered me, Hamilton Burton, a financial
suggestion! I told him then as I tell you now that any human hand which
sticks itself into my affairs will be promptly broken off at the
wrist--no matter whose hand it is. That is the one possible thing that
could drive me to unkindness to any one of my own blood. In that I am
unshakable. I will have no interference. _I_ am the one financier in
this family, and I will submit to no trespassing upon my own field of
empire. Let's have that plainly understood."
He ended, and Tom Burton gazed dumbfounded at the anger which was slowly
dying out of his son's pupils and which had rung through his son's
words.
"You astonish me," he said slowly. "I had no idea of trespass--only of
assistance."
"Thank you. I have never yet felt the need of any man's assistance. In
my own jurisdiction, I admit no peers. I am sorry you forced me to speak
so strongly, but candor is best. Until I ask it no human being must
volunteer advice or criticism. Go on and play cards and amuse yourself
and spend what you like in doing it--but don't annoy me by trying to
make money. I won't have it. No--leave that whiskey alone--" He
peremptorily stretched out his hand, as his father reached again for the
decanter. "You've had enough for this evening. In another moment you
will be tendering additional useless information."
Again the bell rang, and in the library door he saw Mary Burton, radiant
in evening-dress, and the ermine of a long opera-cloak. Her smile was as
luminous as sunshine. Behind her--it suddenly struck Hamilton that the
sight of that particular face across her shoulder was becoming a chronic
accompaniment--stood Jefferson Edwardes.
Both of them were laughing--with a note of mutual understanding.
"Mary," announced her brother, "I want to have a dinner and a dance next
week. I want it to be the most memorable affair of the season. Are you
in for it?"
She looked at him with sudden amazement, and then her merriment broke
out in a series of silvery peals. She turned to Edwardes and repeated in
a mockery of awed surprise.
"He wants to have a dance! Do my ears deceive me? Hamilton whom we can't
drag to a party with a truant officer wants a dance."
Edwardes smilingly lifted the cloak from her shoulders and held out his
hand. "Good-night. Try to get me an invitation," he begged. "Mr. Burton,
can't I drop you at your house?"
"If you don't mind." The elderly gentleman rose and made his way toward
the hall, with a step that wavered from the line. When they had gone,
Hamilton accompanied his sister to the stairs, with an arm about her
waist.
"Mary," he suggested, "a question has just occurred to me. What has
become of your duke?"
She turned on the landing and laughed.
"When I came back from abroad, you begged me to rid myself of foreign
affectations," she announced. "He was one of them and I took your
advice."
"I only begged you to drop your affectations of speech. What I called
your pidgin English," he assured her. "I didn't seek to hamper your
young affections."
"Then I will reply to your question in very colloquial American," she
retorted. "As to the duke--I tied a can to him." She turned and ran
lightly up the stairs.
* * * * *
Paul had sat through the opera that evening with his customary intensity
of interest--but the chatter in the box had irritated him. He had been,
of late, seeing a great deal of Loraine Haswell, and he thought she at
least might have sympathized with his mood and refrained from
disconcerting small talk. Their intimacy had so ripened that she should
have understood how the things he had to say in their tête-à-têtes could
not be uttered in company. So when she invited him to join her
supper-party he declined with a poor grace.
Paul Burton took the opera seriously, almost religiously, and as he
strolled in the foyer during an entr'acte, his annoyance grew. Was there
no place where one could enjoy the art of fellow-artists without having
one's spirit jarred out of all receptiveness?
Then he remembered the high perches of the less-fashionable devotees. He
had never been up there, but he had heard that the occupants of these
upper galleries frowned on noise and even refrained from applause,
drinking in the music as though it were too sacred a thing to treat as a
mere evening's entertainment. Following a momentary whim, he went out to
the box-office and bought a fresh ticket. Holding it in his hand, he
mounted above the parterre boxes and the grand-tier boxes, to the
highest and cheapest of the galleries where silence and an almost awed
concentration reigned. And there, when the lights came on again, he saw
a slender figure in a chair near him, leaning forward with her chin
resting on her hand, in an absolute fervor of interest. It was Miss
Terroll and again she was alone. Once more she impressed him as someone
purring with pleasure, and when the performance ended he found himself
on the sidewalk whimsically waiting for her to come down from her dollar
seat, among the gallery gods.
When he caught sight of her, she was slipping as quietly and
unobtrusively through the crowds of jewelled and fur-wrapped women and
men in evening-dress as though she were a mouse vanishing from a hall
of banqueting, to which she had surreptitiously crept for her crumb. She
did not look at the people about her. She did not seem to see them, for
her eyes were still languorous with memories of Tristan and Isolde. As
Paul touched her arm, she started and he hastened to say: "My car is
here. Won't you let me drive you down-town?"
She let him lead her to his machine and lay back dreamily against the
cushions, as they shot down the avenue between twin threads of electric
opals.
For a while they talked of the opera, of the music and the voices, and
the musician found himself expanding with a warmth of appreciative
contentment, because he had a companion whose understanding and
enthusiasm kept step with his own, and a step like that of a classic
dance, attuned to harmonies.
He found himself often coming with a sort of start to the realization of
a discovery under whose influence he tingled. Theoretically he knew that
in this city, in whose varying meeting places of extremes the unexpected
was to be expected, one should never be astonished. He knew there were
artists who shunned Bohemia, and once he had met a barber whose
enthusiasms were all for cuneiform inscriptions. He had heard in a club
of a hobo whose nails were clean, whose address was elegant and who had
confounded surgeons on surgery, artists on art, poets on verse and
theologues on theology. He knew that the circles which had soothed his
artistic snobbery with an admiration as grateful as soft fingers on a
cat's back held no letters patent on charm or cultivation and yet his
own mind had catalogued women of the stage, off-stage, under a general
heading, in some way associated with cabaret places and false gaiety.
Here was one who called upon him to discard preconceived ideas and begin
anew. On every topic he broached he encountered intelligent discussion
and untrammeled originality of thought. In the back of his brain lurked
the feeling that when he had broached all the topics upon which he could
talk, he would still have touched on only a part of those at her
command.
But between these moments of surprise were others of restful delight
when she made him forget everything except that he was talking with a
charming woman who saw in the opera a pleasure equal to his own.
And though he did not know it, Marcia Terroll, even this soon, saw in
him a nature full of tuneful sweetness, but very weak, and realized that
he was an instrument upon which a strong hand could play to an end of
harmony or discord--an instrument upon which his great brother had
already played, and which his great brother did not in the least
comprehend. Paul's frequent allusions, tinged with hero-worship, had
given her that understanding.
"I saw you in your box," she told him with a smile.
"And I saw you in yours," he laughed back at her.
The girl raised her brows, and he explained. "I ran away from the
chatterboxes and came up to your gallery." They had almost reached the
arch when he earnestly asked: "I wonder if you will go to the opera with
me some evening? It would be wonderful to have someone who really cared
for it."
Once more she laughed, but this time it was rather seriously. "We
inhabit rather different worlds, you and I."
"I want you to let me be an explorer into yours--and your guide into
mine," he declared. After a moment's hesitation she gravely answered:
"It might not hurt you to know something of my world after all. It's
rather humanizing for an artist to free himself from a single
environment. It is possible to suffocate on incense."
Paul Burton smiled. "But you know," he said, "until I was twelve I never
wore a pair of trousers that hadn't been bequeathed to me by my older
brother--and when they reached me they were always liberally patched."
She was alighting from his car and her smile flashed on him as she held
out a small, white-gloved hand. "And I," she retorted, "at that age was
being tricked out in Paris finery. Time brings changes, doesn't it?" It
was the first flash of self-revelation she had given him. But after that
Paul Burton saw Marcia Terroll more than occasionally, and admitted to
himself an interest which he did not seek to analyze.
* * * * *
J.J. Malone returned from the opera that evening for a consultation in
his study with Harrison and Meegan.
"On the day after tomorrow," he reminded them, "the stock-holders'
meeting of Coal and Ore is held. By use of the cumulative system of
balloting we can concentrate our fire on Burton."
"Do you gather," questioned Meegan anxiously, "that our fears of a
Burton raid are founded in fact?"
The elder chief spread before his associates several sheets of closely
written paper.
"On the contrary, I gather that Burton has not selected this time for
his _coup_. I fancy we have forestalled him."
"Yet," suggested Meegan anxiously, "we want to feel sure."
Malone nodded. "Unless several men whom we trust prove traitors, we may
feel sure. Gentlemen, I think we have soon enough, but none too soon,
safeguarded ourselves against piracy. I hardly believe that what Gates
did to L. and N. will be done to us by Burton.... I have been very busy
and for some reason I do not feel quite myself. I think I shall now beg
you to excuse me." The man of mighty resource rose smilingly from the
table and then suddenly rested both hands on its polished surface. His
ruddy face became pallid and he lifted one hand with a bewildered
gesture to his brow.
Harrison and Meegan sprang with a common impulse to his side.
As they helped him to a chair, his step was unsteady. "It will pass,"
Malone assured them. "It is an attack of indigestion." Yet within the
half-hour his powerful frame was being racked by convulsions and two
hours later specialists at St. Luke's were making those preparations
which precede an operation for appendicitis. Tomorrow when the
Stock-Exchange opened the newspapers would spread the news that J.J.
Malone was out of the game and Wall street would once more mirror an
anxiety which any small thing might convert into a parlous situation.
At the same hour a special train with a guaranteed right of way was
thundering along its road-bed with a wake of red cinders and black smoke
trailing from its stack and a single passenger in its single coach. The
Honorable Mr. Ruferton was going to call on the Honorable Mr. Hendricks.
In ignorance of what the morrow held, the Honorable Mr. Hendricks was
meanwhile sleeping peacefully in the quiet of his country house.
Shafts of sunlight came pleasantly through the dining-room windows on
the following morning as he breakfasted alone, and still in ignorance.
The forests were decked with the first coloring of an early frost, and
Mr. Hendricks strolled out for a cigar in the crisp air of his woodland.
Physically he was fit and his conscience did not trouble him; since his
conscience was both lenient and practical.
Then as he took pleasure in his life and his Havana, he saw a
dilapidated buckboard laboring up the rutty trail. It halted at his gate
to let out a man of whom chance had, on more than one occasion, made a
colleague, and occasionally an adversary.
"Hello, Ruferton," he shouted amiably, "what brings you here?"
Mr. Ruferton's face wore an expression of deep concern. He consulted his
watch. "I came on a special train, Hendricks," he bluntly declared, "and
it's waiting to take us both back to New York."
Hendricks laughed. "My dear fellow, I've been speech-making until my
throat is raw. The final days before election mean more hard work.
Meantime I am resting. It's the doctor's stern command."
Ruferton stood at the gate and faced his host. He spoke impressively.
"An election-eve scandal threatens you which will probably involve a
grand-jury investigation. If that is a matter of indifference, stay
here, by all means, but if your future is in any degree important to
you, pack your bag and pack it quick."
For an instant the former state senator and present candidate stood
bewildered. What traitor had betrayed a false step? His tracks were all
well covered, he thought. At last he found his tongue. "In God's name,
what are you talking about?"
Mr. Ruferton held his portfolio tightly grasped in his hand. In it there
were documents to which the other could hardly be indifferent--but
unless all other arguments failed, he preferred reserving them for
future use. He met the stupefied gaze of his protagonist with one of
serious apprehension.
"I might as well be entirely candid with you, Hendricks. I don't know. I
was sent by Hamilton Burton to bring you back to New York; with specific
orders that you were to be at his house not later than nine-thirty this
evening. There he will tell you what you should learn. I have come in
person because he did not care to trust to such a message as could be
telephoned or telegraphed."
"Hamilton Burton?" The Honorable Hendricks was more than ever at sea. "I
have had many dealings with Mr. Burton, but wherefore this sudden and
absorbing interest in my welfare?"
Ruferton smiled. "My dear fellow, perhaps you had better go and ask him.
If Hamilton Burton has turned things topsy-turvy to act as your savior
in an eleventh-hour crisis, common sense compels me to infer that he has
a reason too interesting to ignore."
Mr. Hendricks paced the path for a few minutes in the disquiet of
intense nervousness, then he spoke with sharp accusation and distrust.
"You don't know what this matter is! You have come here by special train
to warn me that I face ruin; and you pretend to have no inkling of the
nature of my peril! You speak of veiled threats. Are you lying to me,
Ruferton?"
"Draw your own conclusions." The time had come for playing the card of
offended sensibilities and Mr. Ruferton turned promptly on his heel.
"Stay where you are and--read the newspapers. Burton's instructions were
to bring you back, but I don't suppose he expected me to kidnap you in
your own behalf. I presume he anticipated your sane realization that he
didn't send for you to smoke a cigar with him. He presumed you were
interested in avoiding disgrace."
"Don't you understand," demanded Hendricks blankly, "how inconceivable
it is that you should come on a mission like this without knowing its
exact nature?"
The other nodded. "Burton didn't know that you were out of town. When
last night, quite late, he learned of this matter he sent me to find
you. There was no time for discussion or explanation."
"Wait until I pack my bag." The Honorable Hendricks, whose dignity on
the bench would so honor the judicial ermine, rushed wildly into the
house while Hamilton Burton's envoy stood outside contemplatively
kicking about among the fallen leaves.
With the flaming of that morning's headlines announcing J.J. Malone's
illness a spirit of nervousness began stalking in the Street. Of this
restlessness Hamilton Burton was duly apprised and while he scornfully
laughed at blind luck he acknowledged the power of his Star, and gave
thanks to his own unnamed gods.
His eye was brilliantly clear and his step resilient, but Paul, whose
delicate nature possessed a quality approaching the clairvoyant, divined
that his great brother was exalted by some prospect of portentous
moment, and that it might mean triumph--or reverse. Timidly the younger
questioned the elder.
That afternoon while Hamilton was outlining future and audacious
strokes of finance Paul was with him. For hours they sat together, the
younger man at the piano and the older listening, being soothed and
softened by the magic touch upon the keys.
This was their custom when momentous affairs were brewing. At last
Hamilton interrupted. "Paul," he questioned slowly, "can't you give me
something that has the crashing of bugles in it; something like a hymn
before action?" Abruptly his voice mounted and he threw back his head.
"By God, little brother, I want the sort of music that goes before the
charge of an irresistible phalanx!"
The musician wheeled on the piano bench and his fingers left the keys.
He rose impulsively and came over to where Hamilton stood with an
unquenchable light blazing in the eyes. The dreamer laid a hand on each
of the achiever's strong shoulders and gazed long and searchingly into
the confident face. Hamilton read a fear in that gaze and affectionately
smiled back his reassurance.
"What is it, little brother?" he asked.
"Hamilton," began the other in an awkward, diffident fashion, "you are
planning something a little vaster than usual. I am frightened.
Sometimes the end of empire is--St. Helena."
The financier laughed.
"It is not written that I can fail, Paul. It's not in my horoscope. You
are right. I am planning something broader than I have done before." He
paused only to add in a vibrant voice: "I told you that the day would
come when above me there would be no man. That day will be tomorrow."
"Is there no chance of defeat?"
"I admit none. To me the influx of gold, and that attendant power which
is its only worth, have become a tidal wave. Nothing can check it."
"And the end of it all?" questioned the other.
"While there is a game to play, Paul, no man has won enough. It's the
splendid sense of growing power. It's the thirst that grows with the
wine you drink. It's fighting and conquering. It is the magnificent
dream of world-mastery. The money itself!" He spread his hands
contemptuously. "That is a beggar's reward--it's the symbol of Might
that counts."
Their mother entered the room as he spoke and paused at the threshold.
Her two sons went forward to meet her, and for a moment, she stood
looking into Hamilton's eyes. Under her gaze their lust of conquest
softened into tenderness and she brushed back the hair from his forehead
as she shook her head and her eyes became misty.
"My egotistical boy," she said in a low voice. "My dear, egotistical
boy!"
Yamuro appeared in the door, bearing a telegram, and swiftly Hamilton
Burton tore the envelope.
"I am bringing in the pelt," were the highly informative words.
"Hendricks accompanies me, Ruferton."
The financier crumpled the slip in his hand and smiled.
"It's fortunate," he murmured half-aloud, "very fortunate--for
Ruferton--that he didn't fail."