CARRINGTON tumbled out of bed at six and threw out the old-fashioned
green blinds. A warm, golden summer morning greeted his eyes, and the
peaceful calm of Sunday lay upon the land. A robin piped in an
apple-tree, an oriole flashed across the flower-beds, and a bee buzzed
just outside the sill. A brave day! He stepped into his tub, bathed, and
dressed in his riding-clothes, for there was to be a canter down to the
sea and return before breakfast. From the window he could see the groom
walking the beautiful thoroughbreds up and down the driveway. There were
only two this morning; evidently Norah was not going.
The Cavenaugh girls had created almost a scandal and a revolution when
they first appeared at Glenwood. People had read and talked about women
riding like men, they had even seen pictures of them, but to find them
close at hand was something of a shock. Yet, when they saw with what
ease the Cavenaugh girls took the hedges, ditches and fences, how their
mounts never suffered from saddle-galls, and, above all, how the two
always kept even pace with the best men riders, opinion veered; and
several ladies changed their habits.
Norah, who saw the droll side of things, once said that the accepted
riding habit for women reminded her of a kimono for a harp.
Carrington stole gently down to the horses. He had great affection for
the sleek thoroughbreds. Their ears went forward when they saw him, and
they whinnied softly. He rubbed their velvet noses and in turn they
nozzled him for sugar-loaves. Had it not been for the night and the
attendant mysteries, his happiness would have been complete. People
waste many precious moments in useless retrospection; so Carrington
resolutely forced the subject from his mind. One thing was certain, the
Cavenaughs knew who the burglar was; and there was something strange in
the idea of an empty safe in a millionaire's home. Pshaw! He took out
the expected sugar-loaves and extended them on both palms. The pair
lipped his hand and crunched the sweets with evident relish.
"How are they to-day, James?"
"Fit for twenty miles, straight away or 'cross-lots, sir. Your mount is
feeling his oats this morning; he hasn't been out for a run since
Thursday, sir. I've put the curb on him in case he takes it into his
head to cut up shines. Here comes Miss Kate, sir."
Carrington's pulse rose. Kate was approaching them. She was pale but
serene. She smiled a good morning, which took in the gentleman and the
groom.
"I hope I haven't kept you waiting."
"Not a moment; I only just got down myself," said Carrington.
She mounted without assistance and adjusted her skirts. The filly began
to waltz, impatient to be off.
"To the beach?" Carrington asked, swinging into his saddle.
She nodded, and they started off toward the highway at a smart trot.
Once there, the animals broke into an easy canter, which they maintained
for a mile or more. Then Kate drew down to a walk.
"What a day!" said he, waving his hand toward the sea-line.
There was color a-plenty on her cheeks now, and her eyes shone like
precious stones. There is no exhilaration quite like it. She flicked the
elders with her crop, and once or twice reached up for a ripening apple.
In the air there was the strange sea-smell, mingled with the warm scent
of clover.
"I'll race you to the beach!" she cried suddenly.
"Done! I'll give you to the sixth tree." He laughed. There was really
nothing at all in the world but this beautiful girl, the horses, and the
white road that wound in and out to the sea.
She trotted her mount to the sixth tree, turned, and then gave the
signal. Away they went, the horses every bit as eager as their riders.
With their ears laid back, their nostrils wide, their feet drumming,
they thundered down the road. Carrington gained, but slowly, and he had
to hold his right arm as a shield for his eyes, as the filly's heels
threw back a steady rain of sand and gravel. Faster and faster; a
milk-wagon veered out just in time; foolish chickens scampered to the
wrong side of the road, and the stray pigs in the orchards squealed and
bolted inland. It was all very fine. And when they struck deep tawny
sand the animals were neck and neck. It was now no easy task to bring
them to a stop. Carrington's hunter had made up his mind to win, and the
lithe filly was equally determined. As an expedient, they finally guided
the animals toward the hull of an ancient wreck; nothing else would have
stopped them.
"How I love it!" said Kate breathlessly, as she slid from the saddle.
"Beauty, you beat him, didn't you!" patting the dripping neck of her
favorite.
They tethered the horses presently, and sat down in the shade of the
hull.
"Nothing like it, is there, girl?"
"I hate automobiles," she answered irrelevantly.
The old, old sea quarreled murmurously at their feet, and the white
gulls sailed hither and thither, sometimes breasting the rollers just as
they were about to topple over into running creamy foam. The man and the
girl seemed perfectly content to remain voiceless. There was no sound
but the song of the sea: the girl dreamed, and the man wondered what her
dream was. Presently he glanced at his watch. He stood up, brushing the
sand from his clothes.
"Half an hour between us and breakfast, Kate. All aboard!"
The night before might have been only an idle dream.
So they took the road back. Only the sea and the gulls saw the tender
kiss.
* * * * *
The pariah sauntered in at two o'clock that afternoon, just as the
family were sitting down to luncheon. He was a revelation. There was
nothing shabby about him now. He wore a new suit, spats, a new straw
hat, and twirled a light bamboo. There was something jaunty and
confident in his air, a bubbling in his eyes; altogether, he was in fine
fettle about something. He cast aside his hat and cane with a flourish.
"Aha! just in time," he said. "Another chair, William."
The butler sent a dubious glance at his master; there was the usual curt
nod and the frown. So grandpa sat down beside Norah, whose usual
effervescence had strangely subsided; he pinched her cheek, and
deliberated between the cold ham and chicken.
"A fine day! A beautiful day! A day of days!" he cried, surrendering to
the appetitious lure of both meats.
Nobody replied to this outburst of exuberance; nobody had the power to.
A strange calm settled over every one. This was altogether a new kind of
grandpa. There was nothing timid or hesitant here, nothing meek and
humble; neither was there that insufferable self-assurance and arrogance
of a disagreeable man. Grandpa's attitude was simply that of an equal,
of a man of the world, of one who is confident of the power he holds in
reserve; that was all. But for all that, he was a sensation of some
magnitude. Carrington was seized with a wild desire to laugh. The truth
came to him like an illumination; but he wisely held his peace.
"There is something in the air to-day that renews youth in old age; eh,
my son?" with a sly wink at Cavenaugh.
Cavenaugh's expression of wonder began to freeze and remained frozen to
the end of the meal. So all the honors of conversation fell to grandpa,
who seemed to relish this new privilege.
"Father," said Cavenaugh, holding back his accumulated wrath, "I want to
see you in my study."
"Immediately, my son. I was just about to make that same request."
Grandpa looked at Kate, then at Carrington. "I suppose you young persons
will invite poor old grandpa to the wedding?"
"Father!" This was altogether too much for patrician blood. Cavenaugh's
face reddened and his fists closed ominously. "You will do me the honor,
father, not to meddle with my private affairs. Kate is my daughter, and
she shall marry the man it pleases me to accept."
Carrington felt this cut dart over grandpa's shoulder. He stirred
uneasily.
"Oh, if that's the way you look at it!" with a comical deprecatory
shrug. Grandpa touched Carrington on the arm. "Young man, do you love
this girl? No false modesty, now; the truth, and nothing but the truth.
Do you love her?"
"With all my heart!" Carrington felt the impulse occult. Something
whispered that his whole future depended upon his answer.
"And you, Kate?"
"I love him, grandpa," bravely.
"That's all I want to know," said grandpa.
Cavenaugh released one of his fists; it fell upon the table and rattled
things generally.
"Am I in my own house?" he bawled.
"That depends," answered grandpa suavely. "You've got to behave
yourself. Now, then, let us repair to the secret chamber of finance. It
is the day of settlement," grimly.
Mrs. Cavenaugh was gently weeping. The dread moment had come, come when
she had been lulled into the belief that it would never come. Kate
understood, and longed to go to her and comfort her; and she trembled
for her father, who knew nothing of the pit that lay at his feet.
Carrington dallied with his fork; he wished he was anywhere in the world
but at the Cavenaugh table. The desire to laugh recurred to him, but he
realized that the inclination was only hysterical.
Cavenaugh was already heading for the study. He was in a fine rage.
Grandpa was close on his heels. At the threshold he turned once more to
Carrington.
"You know your _Tempest_, young man, I'm sure," he said. "Well, this is
the revolt of Caliban--Caliban uplifted, as it were."
The door closed behind them, and father and son faced each other.
"I'll trouble you for those papers you took from the safe last night,"
said the son heavily.
"Ah, indeed!" said grandpa.
"At once; I have reached the limit of my patience."
"So have I," returned grandpa. "Perhaps you know what these papers are
about?"
"I know nothing whatever, save that they belong to Mr. Carrington. Hand
them over."
Grandpa helped himself to a cigar and sat down. He puffed two or three
times, eyed the lighted end, and sighed with satisfaction.
"If you but knew what they were about, these papers, you would pay a
cool million for their possession. My word, it is a droll situation;
reads like the fourth act in a play. If you have a duke picked out for
Kate, forget him."
"She will never marry Carrington!" Cavenaugh's voice rose in spite of
his effort to control it.
"My son, they will hear you," the pariah warned. He blew a cloud of
smoke into the air and sniffed it. "You never offered me this particular
brand," reproachfully.
"Enjoy it," snapped the other, "for it is the last you will ever smoke
in any house of mine."
"You don't tell me!"
"Those papers, instantly!"
"'Be it known by these presents, et cetera, et cetera,'" said the old
man. He rose suddenly, the banter leaving his lips and eyes, and his jaw
setting hard. "You had better get your check-book handy, my son, for
when I'm through with you, you'll be only too glad to fill out a blank
for fifty thousand. I consider myself quite moderate. This young
Carrington is a mighty shrewd fellow; and I'd rather have him as a
friend than an enemy. He has made out his case so strongly that it will
cost you a pretty penny to escape with a whole skin."
"What are you talking about?"
"The case of the people versus Cavenaugh et al. It concerns the clever
way in which you and your partners slid under the seven per cent.
dividend due your investors; which caused a slump in the price of the
shares, forcing thousands to sell their stock; which you bought back at
a handsome profit. Moloch! The millions you have are not enough; you
must have more. There are about twelve of you in all, not one of you
worth less than three millions. What a beautiful chance for blackmail!"
Cavenaugh stepped back, and his legs, striking a chair, toppled him into
it. His father had become Medusa's head!
"Aha! That jars you some," chuckled grandpa.
It took Cavenaugh some time to recover his voice, and when he did it was
faint and unnatural.
"Is this true?" he gasped.
"It is so true that I'll trouble you for the check now."
"Come, father, this is no time for nonsense." Cavenaugh waved his hand
impatiently. "Let me see the document."
"Hardly. But the moment you place the check in my hands, I shall be
pleased to do so. But there must be no reservation to have payment
stopped."
"I will not give you a single penny!" The mere suggestion of giving up
so large a sum without a struggle seemed preposterous. "Not a penny! And
furthermore, I am through with you for good and all. Shift for yourself
hereafter. Fifty thousand! You make me laugh!"
"I shall make you laugh, my son; but not on the humorous side." The old
man reached out his hand and struck the bell.
"What do you want?" asked Cavenaugh, mystified.
"I want the author of the document. I propose to take the family
skeleton out of the closet and dangle it up and down before the young
man's eyes. You will laugh, I dare say."
Cavenaugh fell back in his chair again. The door opened and William
looked in.
"You rang, sir?" to Cavenaugh _fils_.
"No, William," said Cavenaugh _père_ affably; "I rang. Call Mr.
Carrington." The butler disappeared. "It is my turn, Henry, and I have
waited a long time, as you very well know. Ha! Sit down, Mr. Carrington,
sit down."
Carrington, who had entered, obeyed readily.
"You left some papers in the dining-room safe last night," began
grandpa.
"I was about to ask you to return them," replied Carrington, with
assumed pleasantry.
The two Cavenaughs looked at each other blankly. Finally grandpa
laughed.
[Illustration]
"I told you he was clever!"
"It is true, then," snarled the millionaire, "that you have been
meddling with affairs that in no wise concern you. I warn you that your
case in court will not have a leg to stand on."
"I prefer not to discuss the merits of the case," said Carrington
quietly.
"I have been your host, sir; you have eaten at my table." Cavenaugh, as
he spoke, was not without a certain dignity.
"All of which, recognizing the present situation, I profoundly regret."
"Good!" said grandpa. "Henry, if you had been the general they give you
credit for, you would have offered Mr. Carrington that seventeen
thousand two or three years ago. There is nothing so menacing to
dishonesty as the free lance. Now, listen to me for a space. We'll come
to the documentary evidence all in good time. I spoke of Caliban
uplifted," ironically. "For years I have been treated as a pariah, as a
beast of burden, as a messenger boy, as a go-between to take tricks that
might have soiled my son's delicate hands. Father and son, yes; but in
name only. Blood is thicker than water only when riches and ambition are
not touched in the quick. This dutiful son of mine could easily have
elevated me along with himself; but he would not do so. He was afraid
that people might learn something of my past, which would greatly hinder
his advancement. He prospered, he grew rich and arrogant; he put his
heel on my neck, and I dared not revolt. You wouldn't believe it, would
you, Mr. Carrington, that I was graduated with honors from Oxford
University. I speak three tongues fluently, and have a smattering of a
dozen others; am a doctor of philosophy, an Egyptologist. But I was
indolent and loved good times, and so, you see, it came about that I
fell into evil ways. Formerly, I was a burglar by profession."
He stopped, eying Carrington's stupefaction. The son gnawed his lips
impotently.
"I was a master, after a fashion," resumed the old man, satisfied with
his dénouement. "I committed a dozen splendid burglaries. I never left a
trail behind. The police sought for me, but did not know me either by
name or by sight. This was the sword my son kept over my neck. The
slightest rebellion, and he threatened to expose me. Oh, I know the boy
well enough; he would have done it in those days. Once extradited to
England, thirty years ago, no one would have connected our names. Yet he
was afraid of me; he wasn't sure that at any time the old desire would
spring up renewed. I robbed to gratify my craving for excitement rather
than to fill my purse. I made an unhappy marriage; something Kate nor
Norah shall do while I live. Henry was clever. He made me an allowance
of two hundred a month. And how do you suppose he arranged the payment?
On the first day of the month he placed the cash in a safe in the house,
and changed the combination. If I got the money without being caught it
was mine; otherwise I went hungry. Ingenious idea, wasn't it? For I had
all the excitement, and none of the peril of a real burglary. Henry
forgot, yesterday, that it was the first of the month."
The millionaire found it impossible to remain seated. He rose and paced
the floor, his brows knit, his hands clenched. He was at bay. Carrington
felt as if he were in the midst of some mad dream.
"Sometimes I succeeded in opening the safe; and sometimes, when luck
went against me for two or three months, Norah tipped me the
combination. She dared not do it too often. So the months went on. Once
a month I was permitted to visit my grandchildren. My son grew richer
and richer; for myself, I remained in the valley of humiliation. I had
no chance. I had never met any of my son's friends; he took good care
that I did not; so they were in total darkness as to my existence. But
the ball and chain were knocked off last night. Your papers are, after
all, only an incident. Caliban revolts. Mr. Carrington, my son! Oh, I am
proud of him. I believed the genius for robbery was mine. I am a
veritable tyro beside Henry. Half a dozen millions from the pockets of
the poor at one fell swoop! Where's your Robin Hood and his ilk? But it
isn't called robbery; it is called high finance."
He applied a match to his dead cigar and thoughtfully eyed his son.
"And there is a good joke on me, weaving in and out of all this. I
regularly invested half my allowance in buying shares in my son's
company, to insure my old age. It jarred me when I read the truth last
night. I hate to be outwitted. Henry, sit down; you make me nervous."
"Well, what are you going to do?" asked the son. As he faced his father
there was something lion-like in his expression.
"Sit down, my son, and I will tell you," answered the old man quietly.
He knew that his son was a fighter, and that to win he would have to
strike quick and hard.
Cavenaugh flung himself into his chair. At that moment he did not know
which he hated the most, his father or Carrington.
"First, you will write out that check for fifty thousand."
"Blackmail!"
"Nothing of the sort. For twenty years you have kept your heel on my
neck. I could do nothing; opportunities came and I dared not grasp them;
my genuine ability was allowed to rust. It is simply compensation.
Blackmail? I think not. I could easily force a million from you. But I
am and have been for years an honest man. And heaven knows how well I
have paid for my early transgression," bitterly. "This hour is mine, and
I propose to use it."
"What guaranty have I of your good faith?" fiercely.
"My word," calmly. "I have never yet broken it."
Carrington gazed longingly toward the door. It was horribly
embarrassing. He began to realize that Kate's father would hate him
bitterly indeed, and that his own happiness looked very remote.
Cavenaugh turned to his desk, filled out the blank, and passed it to his
father, who, with scarcely a glance at it, passed it back with a
negative shake of the head.
"The official certifying stamp lies on your desk; use it."
There was no getting around this keen-eyed old man. He knew every point
in the game.
"You will live to regret this," said Cavenaugh, his eyes sparkling with
venom.
"I have many things to regret; principally that fate made me a father."
The old man passed the check over to Carrington. "You're a lawyer; does
that look legal to you?"
Carrington signified that it did.
"Now, then, Henry, you will write down on official paper your
resignation as president and director of the General Trust Company of
America. You will give orders for the restitution of the millions that
were fraudulently added to your capital. I am not the least interested
in what manner the restitutions are made, so long as they are made. I am
now representing the investors. As for your partners, it will be easy
for you to impress them with the necessity of the action."
"And if I refuse?"
"Nothing less than the attorney-general. I intend to make this business
as complete as possible."
Cavenaugh turned again to his desk. He knew his father even as his
father knew him. He wrote hurriedly, the pen sputtering angrily.
"What else?" with a cold fury.
Again the old man gave Carrington the paper.
"It is perfectly intelligible," he said. He began to feel a bit sorry
for Cavenaugh junior.
"Now, those papers," said Cavenaugh sharply.
"I believe they belong to me," interposed Carrington.