The next morning at the bank a financial disappointment met him. A
telegram informed him of the sudden slump in some stocks in which he
was interested. The loss was considerable, and the tendency was still
downward. He was wondering if he ought to confide this to Saunders,
when his partner, of his own accord, came into his office and sat down
by his desk.
"Busy just now?" Saunders inquired.
"No; what is it?" Mostyn returned. "Fire away."
Saunders seemed to hesitate. Through the partition came the clicking of
a typewriter and an adding-machine, the swinging of the screened door
in front. "It is a somewhat personal matter," Saunders began,
awkwardly. "I have been wanting to mention it for a month, but hardly
knew how to bring it up. You may know, Mostyn, that I have been
thinking of giving up business here altogether. I have become more and
more interested in my farming ventures, and my life in the country has
taken such a grip on me that I want to quit Atlanta altogether."
"Oh, I see." Mostyn forced a smile. "I thought you would get to that
before long. You are becoming a regular hayseed, Saunders. You are like
a fish out of water here in town. Well, I suppose you want to put a man
in your place so you will have freer rein in every way."
"Not that, exactly, Mostyn. The fact is, I want to realize on my bank
stock. There are other things I'd like to invest in, and I need the
money to do it with. I am planning a cotton-mill in my section to give
employment to a worthy class of poor people."
Mostyn drew his lips tight. He stabbed a sheet of paper on the green
felt before him, and there was a rebellious flash from his eyes.
"Come right out and be frank about it," he said, with a touch of anger.
"Are you afraid your investment in this bank is not a safe one?"
Saunders looked steadily at him. "That certainly is not a businesslike
question, Mostyn, and you know it."
"Perhaps it isn't, but what does it matter?" Mostyn retorted. "At any
rate, that is a shrewd evasion of the point. Well, do you want to sell
_me_ your stock?"
"I would naturally give you the preference, and that is why I am
mentioning it to you."
Mostyn sat frowning morbidly. There was a visible droop to his
shoulders. "There is no use having hard feelings over it," he said,
dejectedly. "You have a right to do as you please with your interests.
But the truth is, I am not financially able to take over as big a block
of stock as you hold."
Saunders hesitated for a moment, then began: "I was wondering if Mr.
Mitchell--"
"Leave him out of consideration, for God's sake," Mostyn broke in. "He
has grown horribly suspicious of me. He would have a regular spasm if
you tried to sell to him. He would be sure we are on the brink of
failure, and talk all over town. Don't mention it to him."
"And you say you are not in a position to--"
"No; many things have gone against me recently, but that needn't bother
you. You can find a buyer."
"I have already found one, and the offer is satisfactory." Saunders
glued his glance to the rug at his feet. "In fact, I have been
approached more than once, Delbridge wants to buy me out."
"Delbridge!" Mostyn started. His lips parted and his teeth showed in a
cold grimace. "Ah, I see his game!"
"I don't understand," Saunders said, wonderingly.
"Well, I do, if you don't. I suspected something was in the wind last
month when he took over Cartwright's stock at such a good figure. Do
you know if he gets your stock that he will hold a larger interest than
mine?"
"I hadn't thought of it."
"I see his plan plainly. He wants to be the president of this bank, and
he can elect himself if he buys you out. He has always wanted exactly
this sort of thing to back up his various schemes. You must give me a
little while to think it over, Saunders. I don't like to give in to
him. He has always fought me, you know, and this would be a feather in
his cap. Perhaps I can induce some one else to make the investment."
"Take all the time you want," Saunders answered. "I want you to be
satisfied."
"Well, I'll let you know to-day, or to-morrow, at furthest," Mostyn
said, wearily. "If I can't make some arrangement I'll have to give in,
that's all. My affairs are getting pretty badly tangled, but I'll come
out all right."
When Saunders had left him and the door had closed, Mostyn leaned his
head on his hand and tried to collect his wits, but to no avail. What
was the intangible thing which had haunted him through the night,
causing him to lie awake, reciting over and over old Mitchell's account
of the scene with his daughter just before her departure? What was it
that kept coupling this hurried trip of hers with Buckton? Was
thought-transference a scientific fact, as many hold, and was the
insistent impression due to the bearing of culpable minds upon his? He
might telephone here and there and find out if Buckton was in town--but
no, no, that would not do.
The porter opened the door and came in with a bundle of letters and
papers which he put down before him and withdrew. A grim foreboding
settled on him. Something seemed to whisper from the mute heap that
here lay the revelation--here was the missing communication from Irene
of which her father had spoken. A bare glance at the bundle was enough,
for he recognized the pale-blue envelope belonging to Irene's favorite
stationery. With bloodless fingers, breathlessly, he drew it out. It
had been posted the night before. Surely, he told himself, there was
meaning in this slower method of delivery, for what had prevented her
from leaving it at home in his room or in her father's care? Or, for
that matter, why had she not telephoned him? He laid the communication
down, unopened. He was afraid of it. Had the skies been stone, their
supports straws, his dread could not have been greater. He went to the
door and softly turned the key. There should be no eye upon him. He
came back. Taking a paper-knife, he slit the envelope and spread out
the perfumed sheet. It read:
DEAR DICK,--There is no use keeping up this senseless farce any longer.
I am sick to death with my very existence. I have been hungry for love
all my life, and never had it. When I married I mistreated the only man
I ever cared for, and I have resolved to do so no longer. Andy and I
are leaving together. God only knows if we shall find the happiness we
are seeking, but we are going to try. Father thinks I have gone to the
Hardys'. Perhaps he may as well be kept in ignorance for a few days
longer. The truth will leak out soon enough. Though you may do as you
like about this. As for your following us and making things unpleasant,
I have no fears, for, as you well know, I am entitled to my liberty in
this matter. You have certainly not been molested by me in your own
private life. I now know all about the cottage in the outskirts of
town, but I am not blaming you in the least. I confess that I thought
you had ceased your attentions in that quarter, but that was because I
attributed a certain spiritual and remorseful quality to you which you
do not possess. I am not blaming you at all--_at all_. In fact, somehow
the discovery has had a soothing effect on me. It has confirmed the
feeling that both you and I have been and are the mere playthings of
Fate. As I see it, I am doing my duty. I led poor Andy on before my
marriage. I kissed him--I've kissed him a thousand times, both before
and since my marriage. He can't live without me, and I can't live
without his love and future companionship. Life is too short to spend
it in the sheer misery I have been in of late. He and I are going out
into the great world to live, enjoy, and die together. People will
talk, but we can't help that--the truth is, we don't care. You will
blame me for leaving the child, for you do love him, but I can't help
that. He was born out of love, and was always a reproach to me. You
will take care of him; I know that, and better than if I were there.
Good-by. IRENE.
Mostyn folded the sheet and thrust it into his pocket. Going to a
window, he stood looking out on the dusty street. Drays and cabs were
trundling by. Had his back been bared to the thonged scourge of the
public whipping-post and the blows been falling under the strokes of a
giant, he could not have cringed more. He saw himself the
laughing-stock of the town, the fool provider for another man's
passion. He saw his adored child, now worse than motherless, growing up
into open-eyed consciousness of his hereditary shame. He saw his wreck
of a father-in-law glaring at him in senile indignation. What was to be
done--what _could_ be done? Nothing--simply nothing. Men of honor in
the past had been able to wipe out stains like those and keep their
heads erect, but to assume that he was "a man of honor," as matters
stood, would be the height of absurdity. He certainly would not
announce the news to Mitchell. He would ward off the disclosure as long
as possible, and then--well, there was no knowing what would happen.
Going to the door, he unlocked it and peered into the busy bank. His
glance fell on Saunders's desk. Saunders was not there. He had decided
to speak to him with finality in regard to the disposition of his
stock. What mattered it now who held the office of president? In fact,
the unsullied name of a man like Delbridge might rescue the institution
from the actual ruin which was apt to follow such a scandal and the
accompanying report of old Mitchell's financial estrangement from his
son-in-law.
Mostyn approached Wright, the cashier, with the intention of inquiring
where Saunders was when he heard Wright speaking to a man through the
grating as he turned a check over in his hand. "I am sorry," he was
saying, "but, while it is small, we could not cash it without
identification."
"That's why I brought it to you," the man answered. "I know Mr.
Saunders. I've seen him several times up in the mountains. He cashed a
check for me up there once, and said if I ever happened to be down here
to drop in to see him."
"He is out just now, but will be in very soon," Wright said. "Won't you
come into the waiting-room and take a seat?"
Stooping down a little, Mostyn was enabled to see the face of the
applicant. It was that of John Leach, the tramp preacher. Their eyes
met. Mostyn bowed and smiled. Then he touched Wright on the arm just as
he was about to shove the check back to its owner. "I know him," he
said. "It is all right."
Mostyn noticed a look of astonishment struggling on the tanned features
of the preacher, but he turned away just as Wright was counting out the
money. He would go out and find Saunders, he decided, and get the
detail pertaining to the sale of stock off his mind. Outside he looked
up the street, seeing Saunders and Delbridge standing on the corner in
conversation.
"Delbridge is crazy to make the deal," he said, bitterly. "That is what
he is talking about now. Well, he may have it. I am down and out. I am
in no shape to attend to business. Besides, I'll want to hide myself
from the public eye. Yes, he will protect my interest, and I shall need
all the funds I can rake together. Great God! how did this ever come
about? Only the other day I had some hope, but now not a shred is left.
Delbridge was my financial rival. Neck and neck we ran together, the
talk of the town; but now--yes, he can wipe his feet on me. Look at
him--he's grinning--he's laughing--he is telling one of his funny yarns
to pretend to Saunders that he is indifferent about the stock. Huh!
Well he may laugh. Who knows, perhaps _his_ luck will turn? The man
that counts on luck is God's fool."
Mostyn took out a cigar as he approached the two men. "Match?" he asked
Delbridge. The financier gave him one, and Mostyn struck it on the
canvas back of a small check-book and applied it to the end of his
cigar. "Saunders says you have made him an offer for his block of bank
stock," he puffed, slowly.
"Yes, I made him a proposition." Delbridge's face fell into sudden
shrewd rigidity. "I have about that amount of money idle just now.
Saunders says he feels that you are entitled to a preference of the
stock, and that until you decide what you want to do my offer must hang
in the air."
Mostyn flicked at the ashless tip of his cigar. "I have thought it
over," he said, "and, on the whole, Delbridge, I am sure your name will
help the bank's standing, and I hope you and Saunders will make the
deal."
"Oh, that's all right, then," Delbridge beamed. "Well, Saunders, I'll
consider it settled, then. I'll walk into the bank with you now. I may
be too busy later in the day."
Mostyn moved on. He crossed the viaduct over the railway tracks and
walked aimlessly for several squares, bowing to acquaintances on the
way. Presently he turned and began to retrace his steps, without any
plan of action other than keeping his legs in motion.
At the corner of the street he came face to face with Leach. The man
smiled cordially and brushed his long hair back over his ear with his
delicate hand. "I was just wondering where I've seen you before." He
extended his hand. "You certainly surprised me in the bank just now
when you stood for me like you did."
Mostyn explained that he had heard him preach at Wartrace's store five
years before.
"Say, I remember now," Leach cried. "Wasn't you sitting on the porch of
the store?"
Mostyn nodded. "Yes, and I enjoyed your talk very much. I have thought
of it a good many times since."
"I remember you now powerful well--powerful well. I seldom forget a
face, and if a man shows that he is listening close, as you did that
day, it helps me along. Do you know, I put you down as about the best
listener I ever had. I saw it in your face and eyes. You got up and
left before I was through, or I'd have spoken to you. It seemed to me
that you was bothered powerful over something. Being in prison as long
as I was gave me what you might call second-sight. You may not believe
it, but I can actually feel a stream of thought coming from folks now
and then. I can detect trouble of any spiritual sort in the face or in
the touch of a hand. It isn't any of my affair, but right now I have a
feeling that you are bothered. I reckon you business men have a lot to
trouble you in one way and another."
"Yes, it is constant worry," Mostyn answered, evasively.
"This ain't no time to preach," Leach went on, with his characteristic
laugh; "but I feel like scolding every town man I meet. This place is
no better suited to real happiness than a foundry is for roses to bloom
in. If you want to breathe God's breath, smell the sweet perfume of His
presence, and walk in the wonderful light of His glory, throw this
dusty grind off and go out into nature. Get down on your all-fours and
hug it. Stop making money. When you've got a pile of it as high as that
sky-scraper there you haven't got as much actual wealth as a honey-bee
carries in one single flight through the sunlight. I never saw Heaven's
blaze in the eye of a money-maker, but I _have_ seen it in the black
face of a shouting nigger at a knock-down-and-drag-out revival. I
intimated that I was happy when you heard me five years ago, I reckon.
Well, since then I have become so much more so that that time seems
like stumbling-ground, full of ruts and snags. Oh, I could tell you
wonders, wonders, wonders! There never was an emperor I'd swap places
with. If you ever get in trouble, come talk to me. Hundreds of men and
women have opened their hearts to me and cried their troubles out like
little children. I couldn't tell you how to get the best of a man in a
speculation here in this hell-hole of iniquity, but I can show you how
you can tie a thousand of God's spirit-cords to you and be drawn so
high above all this that you won't know it is in existence. Going to
the country this summer? I am. I'm headed for the mountains now. I just
dropped in here to collect the little money that comes to me every
quarter. I see you are in a hurry; well, so long. God be with you,
friend. I'm going to pray for you. I don't know why, but I am. I'm
going to pray for this whole rotten town, but I'll mention you special.
Good-by."
"He may be right," Mostyn mused, as he strode on toward the bank. "He
_is_ right--he _is_!"