"Oh, no; don't sell any of his stock!" he howled. "Don't! Don't sell any
of _his_ stock! Please don't! Sell mine!"
XVII
A TELEGRAM FROM MISS DOROTHY CASTLE OF CLEVELAND TO MR. TRUMAN
LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK
CLEVELAND, October 29, 1897.
_To Truman Livingstone, c/o the "Whole Family", New York._
Don't give up. Check one thousand to-day. Use it. Letter.
10 paid
(Signed)
DOROTHY.
XVIII
GRABBING AT STRAWS
Barrifield arrived three days later and began at once his effort to
secure capital. In this he was quite alone, as no one of the others made
even an attempt to produce friends of financial ability. True, the
Colonel, who was a friend of them all, and who at last knew something of
the situation, declared that he would take a very satisfactory interest
in the enterprise if the money he was expecting would but come. This
event did not occur, however, and matters grew more precarious.
To be sure, the number of subscriptions increased somewhat for a time,
and on one day in November reached the maximum of thirty-two. This,
Perner figured, would give them something like ten thousand in a year if
they could rely on that many every day. But on the next day the number
was less than twenty, and the tendency continued downward.
As for Barrifield, he made a most noble effort. He interviewed men of
means whom he had known for many years, and others whom he had known for
less than as many minutes. He came in each evening to report. He spoke
of capital as being "timid" at this season, but he never lost hope. The
others, whose faith had become a mere rag, and who were inclined to
regard further effort as a farce, still kept on, at his urging,
preparing the second and third issues, though in a hopeless and
half-hearted way. Some one has said that it is harder to stop a paper
than to start one. The proprietors of the "Whole Family" realized this
daily. The money coming in was far from sufficient for the expense, but
it served to prolong the death agony from week to week.
Perner, who had carefully figured out by this time the impossibility of
success from any standpoint, was for quitting forthwith and getting back
to work. Van Dorn was somewhat inclined in the same direction;
Livingstone also, perhaps, though he announced his readiness to stay in
the field as long as there was anything to fight for. Barrifield and
Colonel Hazard were for an effort to the death.
The Colonel was invaluable at this period. All bills that came were
referred to him. It was hard enough not to be able to meet them, but
what was still harder, payment, he averted with a skill and kindly grace
that would have done credit to Beau Brummel himself. The landlord went
away empty-handed and laughing, and the landlady, who called later with
an offspring clinging to either side of her skirts, was flattered by the
Colonel into leniency, and the offsprings kissed by him in the jolliest
manner possible. When, a few days later, she came again, he said:
"I will do anything, madam, anything in the world to oblige you. I would
even pay you if I could. I have kissed the children--I will do so
again. I will--if you will permit me, madam-- I--" But the blushing
landlady had hurried away laughing, leaving the gallant Colonel and his
assistants--now reduced in numbers to two--blushing and laughing behind
her. No one could be offended at the Colonel.
As for Bates, they still managed to pay his salary, and he appeared to
be very busy--also, at times, very drunk. However, he kept away from
them for the most part, for which they were duly grateful.
Each night Barrifield had some one in view who would certainly come to
the rescue on the morrow. Each night it was a different one. The rescuer
of the night before had just invested his capital, was just about to do
so, or had just lost largely on some former investment. Rushly of the
"Home," and President Bright of Bright & Sons' Stellar, were both
enthusiastic over the opportunity, and would certainly mention it to
their friends. For themselves, it was, unfortunately, out of the
question for the present. Rushly had purchased stock in his own paper.
President Bright, in conjunction with his sons, had made large
additions to their factory, etc. Truly, capital _was_ timid--unusually
so.
Still Barrifield did not despair wholly. He gave a dinner, at last, to a
number of men who were believed to have more or less capital at their
command. At this dinner he set forth his plan in the most magnetic
manner and glowing terms. His speech made a decided sensation. Almost to
a man his guests declared it a good thing. One of them, the next
morning, more conscientious than the others,--a noble spirit, in
fact,--sent in his check for ten dollars--the first assessment on a
single share.
And so the weeks dragged on. Subsequent rounds of the first issue were
handled with no appreciable difficulty by the Colonel and his two
assistants, and "the first round of the second issue" they managed to
obtain from the printers in fairly decent season. But the third number
dragged--dragged horribly--dragged until those who had subscribed began
to write letters of inquiry that were not always polite. The "man with
his sleeves rolled up" came to the rescue at last on this issue. He let
them have it without the check. He even delivered the papers to the
post-office for them, and advanced the postage from his own purse.
Matters being now sufficiently desperate, Perner urged daily that they
turn their subscriptions over to some other publication to fill, and
quit, short off. He was getting frightfully pinched for means, and the
others, except Barrifield, no less so. Barrifield still had his salary.
To be sure, they now had time in which to do some outside work, but the
market had changed during the year, and it seemed almost impossible to
dispose of matter which a year before the editors had fought for.
"Why, a year ago," grumbled Perner, "my quatrains used to be legal
tender anywhere on Park Row for a dollar. Now they want to charge me
advertising rates to print them."
"Same with pictures," echoed Van Dorn. "My opinion is that a lot of us
will be back plowing corn next spring."
"It's a good while till spring," reflected Livingstone, gloomily. He was
working on his painting a good deal these days, and perhaps getting
truer feelings into it because of his own despair.
Barrifield came in at this juncture, filled with the usual enthusiasm.
He had learned of a man who was thought to be anxious to invest in just
such an enterprise as the "Whole Family." He was going to see him in the
morning--he would almost certainly come to the rescue. They were
discussing this possibility when Colonel Hazard entered. For the first
time he looked worn and discouraged.
"What's the matter, Colonel?" asked Perner. "You look tired."
"Yes," assented the Colonel; "the landlady's been in again after the
rent. The landlord was there, too, this afternoon. I think I've paid it
in kind words and kisses about as long as I can. They said we'd either
have to pay or give up the rooms."
This statement cast a momentary gloom even over Barrifield.
"And Bates," continued the Colonel, "has been in, too. He came to notify
me that he would quit to-night unless he got his money for last week. We
didn't pay him last week, you know. I should very promptly have told him
to quit had I felt authorized to do so."
"No, no; don't do that!" protested Barrifield, anxiously. "Tell him to
wait till to-morrow. Tell him"--he hesitated a moment, and then added in
all seriousness, "tell him we'll raise his salary."
XIX
A LETTER FROM MR. TRUMAN LIVINGSTONE OF NEW YORK TO MISS DOROTHY CASTLE
OF CLEVELAND
NEW YORK, December 28, 1897.
DEAR, DEAR DORRY: Well, Dorry, it's all over. All our hopes
and dreams have come to nothing. Perny pulled down the sign
in the hall this morning, and the furniture is being taken
out of the rooms below to sell for whatever it will bring to
pay as far as it will go on the rent. Perny said he wouldn't
go into a new year with this hanging over us, nor Van Dorn,
either, and I think it's just as well myself.
"You see, Dorry, it would be no use. Our plan looked well,
but it was all wrong; and even if it hadn't been, it would
have taken more money than we could ever have got hold of,
and a long, long time besides, to get started. Of course,
Frisby did it without money, but that was a good while ago,
and he was first in the field. It is like a prize drawn in a
lottery--the chances are against another being won by
anything near the same ticket number. And then, even Frisby
may not have done exactly as he said--people don't always
tell things of this kind just as they happened.
"Barrifield still hopes against hope that sometime he may
find some one with capital who will bring the 'Whole Family'
to life. He has taken the lists and books and things away to
show to such people; but I think it would be better if he
did not show them, for they could not seem much of an
inducement to any one with money already made and safely
locked in the bank. The Colonel has gone, too, and Bates,
and the last is the one bright spot in all this sad affair.
He went some weeks before the Colonel-- I believe I wrote
you at the time. Bates was a great trial to us all--a
greater trial even than I ever told you, for though I did
not speak of it before, he drank to excess, and we also know
now that he was unreliable in many ways. On all the
advertising he placed for us he received a commission, while
from the advertising he obtained for us we received no
returns, for it was all taken on trial, or in some such way,
and he had no contracts at all except the one of two dollars
I once mentioned. That was genuine, and we got the two
dollars.
"We thought, Dorry, with all of us together, we had a good
combination of people for starting a paper, but I realize
now that we probably had about the worst one that could be
imagined. Artists and writers can make a good paper, and the
'Whole Family' was not bad, as papers go, but it takes
somebody else to run it, and even Perny's ten years'
business experience was worse than nothing after being mixed
with about as many more years of bohemia. He says so himself
now. The Colonel was as bad as the rest of us--worse,
because he is older, and with him the habit of getting rich
on paper has had time to grow and become fixed. He will go
on chasing rainbows, I suppose, until the end of his days.
Poor old chap! When I shut my eyes I can imagine him in his
frayed clothes, with his white hair and his eager face,
racing madly across rain-wet meadows for the imaginary pot
of gold. That is what we have all been doing, Dorry, and had
our combination been ever so strong and our feet ever so
swift, we never should have found it.
"For I realize a great many things now that none of us
realized at the start. The cost of producing a paper is very
great, and there were many things that we did not know of at
all. Perny knows all about it now, and has figured it out
for me and Van, so that we see clearly at last that no
matter how much money we had started with, or how capable we
were, we should only have failed, for, unless we changed our
plans and charged higher for the paper and gave less
premiums, the more subscribers we got the more we should
have lost. It is some consolation to know that, for we might
have lost a hundred thousand dollars very easily in a year
if we had had it, or had raised it by subscription, as we
tried to do. Your little thousand would have been but a drop
in the ocean, and would have lasted only a few days. So I
send back the draft to you, now that everything is ended and
you cannot refuse to take it. As for my part of the
assessments, I managed to keep up and a little more, for I
was still in favor of going on when the others had reached
the limit of their means.
"And now comes the hardest part of all. For oh, Dorry dear,
I am going to do what I once said I would do if anything
happened to me, or if the paper failed and ruined us all. I
am going to release you. I could not think, Dorry, after all
that has passed, of letting you come here now to share my
poverty. For that is what it is, dear--just poverty; and
poverty in a big city is more humiliating and deadening to
all the joys of life than it can possibly be elsewhere. I
have nothing now but my hands, Dorry, and they are of little
value, for times have changed and there is much less work
than formerly. I have less even than that, because there are
some debts that have accumulated and must be paid.
"I never realized what riches were until I had them,--I mean
until I thought I had them, which was the same thing while
it lasted,--nor what poverty meant. And Perny says so, too,
and Van. Barry, of course, still has his salary. But I
realize now, and I am not going to let you leave comfort and
plenty, without care, to come here and share only privation
and care, without comfort, with me. It breaks my heart to
give you up, Dorry, but I know it is right, and while you
might still be willing, if I asked it, to fulfil your
promise to me, and do not realize all that it would mean, I
cannot ask you--I cannot allow you--to do it.
"Some day, Dorry, things may be different again. Some day,
if we both live and you are still free, and still care, I
may come to you and ask you to give me back your promise.
For you are free now, Dorry. I would be less than I am if I
did not give you your freedom now, after holding out to you
all the promises of wealth, and leading you to believe in
all my vain dreams. How beautiful you were through it all!
You only thought of others. Dear heart, what will the poor
poets and artists do now without the beautiful place you
were going to build for them? I suppose they must always be
poor dreamers like me to the end, and it is that poverty and
that end, darling, that I cannot ask you to share.
"Good-by, Dorry. We have been friends from childhood, and
friends we must still, be, for, whatever comes, I am always
"Your faithful
"TRUE."
"P.S. I believe I wrote you that your Christmas remembrance
came. I thank you for it once more. It is very beautiful. I
thought you might care for the book because it is an
autograph copy. I must not forget to wish you a happy and
beautiful New Year. It will be different from what we had
planned--different from the year just passed, which, I
suppose, has been happy, too, though I would not, for some
reasons, wish to repeat it. I forgot to tell you about my
picture. I am only waiting for a cold sleet to come, so I
can finish it. I had intended it, you know, for Perny's
Christmas, to hang over his desk in the new house; but there
is no new house, and he would not let me give it to him now,
so I shall try to sell it.
"TRUE."
XX
THE BARK OF THE WOLF
In the studios near Union Square, where two artists and a writer lived
and toiled together, there was an atmosphere of heavy gloom. It was a
bitter, dark day without, for one thing, raw and windy, while within
there was little in the way of cheerfulness besides the open fire,
which, for economy's sake, was not allowed to manifest any undue spirit
of enterprise. Being the last day in the year--a year that had not been
overkind to them--also added something to the feeling of pervading
melancholy, and the fact that no one of the three had eaten since the
previous evening was not conducive to joy.
They were not altogether without hope. They had tobacco, such as it
was, and coal for the time being. Food was more or less of a luxury
compared with these. They had scraped together their last fractional
funds and invested them in necessaries. Then, too, there was to be more
money; not much, of course,--there was not much money anywhere now,--but
enough to satisfy for a time the gaunt wolf that was marching up and
down in the hall outside, pausing now and then to grin up at the spot
where the sign of the "Whole Family" had hung, and show his gleaming
white teeth. It was Van Dorn who had pictured the situation in this
manner, and added:
"I'm afraid to go out in the hall after dark, for fear he'll get me by
the leg."
And Perner:
"I think we'd better invite him in. Maybe he's brought something."
Livingstone looked wearily in the fire.
"I wish the 'Decade' would send me that check they promised to-day," he
muttered presently.
"And 'Dawn' the one they were to send me," said Van Dorn.
"And the 'Columbian' mine," echoed Perner. "If I thought I could get it
now by going over there, I'd go."
"Too late, Perny; they're closed. You should have got it when you were
there yesterday."
"Yes, I know; but I thought some of us would surely get one, and I
didn't want to appear broke. I suppose, if they'd mentioned it, I'd have
been fool enough to have said, 'No hurry--any time-- I don't need it.'"
Van Dorn regarded Perner gravely.
"Perny," he said severely, "it is my opinion that you did say those very
words. Were you, or were you not, offered a check yesterday in the
'Columbian' office?"
"I _were not_! Though I believe there was some mention of having it made
out if I wished it, and--"
"And you told them that any time next week, or next month, or next year
would do! Let in the wolf, Stony; we're betrayed."
"Well," said Perner, "it'll be next year before it's next week, anyway."
Livingstone arose and marched up and down the floor.
"Don't do that," said Van Dorn. "It'll make you hungrier."
"I suppose Barry's gone home," reflected Perner, "hasn't he, Van, by
this time?"
"Yes; and he lives seven miles beyond the bridge--too far to walk
to-night."
Livingstone paused in his exercise.
"I believe there's one more mail," he said; "isn't there, fellows?"
"Why, yes, that's so!" declared Perner. "And if there isn't, go down
anyway. Maybe somebody's put something in the Colonel's mail-box that we
can eat or sell."
Livingstone disappeared and was gone for some minutes.
"I guess the wolf's got him," said Perner.
Then they heard him coming three steps at a time.
"Bully!" said Van Dorn. "That means a check!"
"A check, sure as the world!" echoed Perner, joyfully.
Livingstone plunged in--his face flushed, his eyes shining, and an open
letter in his hand.
"How much is it?" asked Van Dorn and Perner together.
Livingstone regarded them as if he did not understand.
"How much is what?" he asked--then added joyously: "Oh, yes--oh, no; it
isn't from the 'Decade'--it's--it's a _letter_!"
Van Dorn and Perner rose grimly. Van Dorn's voice was very stern.
"And what do you mean," he demanded, "by looking as you do now over a
letter--simply a _letter_?"
But Livingstone was in no wise daunted.
"Sit down, Van!" he shouted, "you and Perny! I've always wanted to tell
you, and never could quite do it before. Sit down now, and I'll read you
this letter! It's from the girl that sent in our first subscription.
It's the best letter that was ever written--from the best girl that God
ever made!"
XXI
THE LETTER LIVINGSTONE READ
MY OWN DEAR FOOLISH TRUE: I wonder if you think that because
we have all been asleep, dreaming wonderful dreams,--chasing
a rainbow, as you say,--that it is going to make any real
difference in our lives now that we are awake. It may seem
to make differences for a time--trifling differences in
trifling things; it may even give us something to look back
on and laugh about--something in the way of experience that
to such as Van and Perny and yourself may be of use as
material: but as to making any vital difference in whatever
makes life full and beautiful and worth having, and that is
love,--our love for each other, I mean,--why, True, the
very thought of it is so absurd that I try not to be
offended with you for even thinking it.
"Do you remember, True, long ago, when you first wrote me
about the paper, and I wrote you that, while I was glad for
your sake, I was not enthusiastic over the undertaking? That
was my real self, True, and was from the heart--the same
heart that is more enthusiastic now over the failure of it
all than it ever was over the beginning. If I was dazzled
for a time by the fair colors in the sky,--if I seized your
hand, and with you and Barry and Perny and Van and the
Colonel went racing down the wet meadows for the pot of
gold,--it does not mean that I am any the less glad to wake
up now and find that life is something better than all that;
that true life lies in doing conscientiously whatever we can
do best; that such dreams only serve to make our best work
better, and that still better than all of these is youth and
love--our youth, True, and our love for each other.
"No, True; I am not going to take back my promise. What do
you suppose I care for the few dollars you have lost? You
are no less good and noble--no less capable than before; and
as for the times, they will change--they always do. It
almost hurts me to realize that you could think I would ever
let you send me off even for what you considered my own
good. And I will not go, you see. You can't send me
away--unless, indeed, you do not want me any more, and then,
of course, you will say so, and I will go. Forgive me, True;
I do not mean that; but I must punish you the least bit
because--because I am a woman, I suppose.
"And now, True, about this draft for a thousand dollars
which I am sending back to you. It was right, of course, for
you to hold it as you did when you felt that it could do no
good, and it is better to have it now, when it will. I want
you to have it cashed at once, and let Van and Perny have
just whatever they need of it to tide them over, and I want
you to help the Colonel, too, if you can find him. Then you
are to take the rest of it, and, after using whatever you
need for yourself, go out and find the smallest and cheapest
little apartment in New York that we can live in. Furnish it
with the fewest things you can buy, and if there is any
money left, we will take a wedding trip on it just as far as
it will take us. Then we will come back to our little
apartment, you will go back to your beloved art, and we will
start really as Mr. Frisby did this time--without a dollar!
I have no preparation to make. Let me know when you are
coming and I will be ready.
"And now, True, good-by, with the happiest of New Years for
you and your good friends, who will, I am sure, be my good
friends, too, though I take you away from them in part. I
wonder if it would be right for me to say I am glad we
failed? I am afraid that, even if it is wrong, it is the
truth. I _know_ it is! There are many things that we could
do with wealth, but there are so many things so much sweeter
that we might not have; and oh, dear True, I am only a
woman, and selfish, after all.
"Always and always your
"DOROTHY.
"P.S. I almost forgot to thank you for the autograph volume.
You could not have pleased me more.
"DORRY."
XXII
THE BREAD LINE
Livingstone did not read quite all the letter. There were lines and
paragraphs here and there that he entered, stumbled, and backed out
of--taking at last a road around that was so evidently his own as to
make Perner remark once:
"Don't revise, Stony; you can't improve on the original."
And when he had finished, none of the three spoke for at least a minute.
Then Van Dorn said huskily:
"I knew she was a bully girl when she sent that subscription-- I could
tell by the writing."
And Perner added:
"That subscription letter is mine, Stony. As acting manager of the
'Whole Family' I claim it."
Then, all at once, they had hold of Livingstone's hands, and when the
three faced the fire again it reflected in their eyes with unusual
brightness.
"I can't get it cashed to-night," Livingstone reflected presently; "it's
too big."
"No; and you are not to get it cashed any night until you find that
apartment," said Van Dorn.
Perner nodded.
"Van and I are grateful," he assented, "but with our few wants, and our
marvelous talents, coupled with my ten years' business experience--"
"But you haven't had any dinner, nor any lunch, nor breakfast,"
interrupted Livingstone, speaking as one who had himself fared
sumptuously.
"A letter like that is worth more than a good many dinners," said Van
Dorn.
"Yes," agreed Perner; "it is--to all of us."
The faces of the two older men had become reminiscent. Perhaps they
were remembering--one a wife, the other a sweetheart--both memories now
for a dozen years or more.
"Boys, do you recollect the dinner we had a year ago to-night?" This
from Livingstone.
The others nodded. They were remembering that, too, perhaps.
"Then the bread line afterward?" said Perner. "We gave them a nickel
apiece all around, and were going to give them a dollar apiece to-night.
And now, instead of that--"