Grant read the account of her wedding in the city papers a day or two
later. It was given the place of prominence among the Christmas Day
nuptials. He read it through twice and then tossed the paper to the end
of his little office. Grant was housed in a building by himself; a shack
twelve by sixteen feet, double boarded and tar-papered. A single square
window in the eastern wall commanded a view of the Landson corrals.
On the opposite side of the room was his bed; in the centre a huge
wood-burning stove; near the window stood a table littered with daily
papers and agricultural journals. The floor was of bare boards; a
leather trunk, with D. G. in aggressive letters, sat by the head of
his bed, and in the corner near the foot was a washstand with basin
and pitcher of graniteware. In another corner was a short shelf
of well-selected books; clothing hung from nails driven into the
two-by-fours which formed the framework of the little building; a rifle
was suspended over the door, and lariat and saddle hung from spikes in
the wall. Grant sat in an arm chair by the stove, where the bracket lamp
on the wall could shed its yellow glare upon his paper.
After throwing the sheet across the room he half turned in his chair,
so that the yellow light fell across his face. Fidget, the pup, always
alert for action, was on her feet in a moment, eager to lead the way
to the door and whatever adventure might lie outside. But Grant did
not leave his chair, and, finding all her tail-waving of no avail, she
presently settled down again by the stove, her chin on her outstretched
paws, her drooping eyes half closed, but a wakeful ear flopping
occasionally forward and back. Grant snuggled his foot against her
friendly side and fell into reverie....
There was nothing else for it; he must absolutely dismiss Zen--Zen
Transley--from his mind. That was not only the course of honor; it was
the course of common sense. After all, he had not sought her for his
bride. He had not pressed his suit. He had given her to Transley. The
thought was rather a pleasant one. It implied some sort of voluntary
action upon Grant’s part. He had been magnanimous. Nevertheless, he was
cave man enough to know pangs of jealousy which his magnanimity could
not suppress.
“If things had been different,” he remarked to himself; “if I had been
in a position to offer her decent conditions, I would have followed up
the lead. And I would have won.” He turned the incident on the river
bank over in his mind, and a faint smile played along his lips. “I would
have won. But I couldn’t bring her here.... It’s the first time I ever
felt that money could really contribute to happiness. Well--I was happy
before I met her; I can be happy still. This little episode....”
He crossed the room and picked up the newspaper he had thrown away; he
crumpled it in his hand as he approached the stove. It said the
bride was beautiful--the happy couple--the groom, prosperous young
contractor--California--three months.... He turned to the table,
smoothed out the paper, and studied it again. Of course he had heard
the whole thing from the Landsons; they had done Y.D. and his daughter
justice. He clipped the article carefully from the sheet and folded it
away in a little book on the shelf.
Then he told himself that Zen had been swept from his mind; that if ever
they should meet--and he dallied a moment with that possibility--they
would shake hands and say some decent, insipid things and part as people
who had never met before. Only they would know....
Grant occupied himself with the work of the ranch that winter, spring,
and summer. Occasional news of Mrs. Transley filtered through; she was
too prominent a character in that countryside to be lost track of in
a season. But anything which reached Grant came through accidental
channels; he sought no information of her, and turned a deaf ear,
almost, to what he heard. Then in the fall came an incident which
immediately changed the course of his career.
It came in the form of an important-looking letter with an eastern
postmark. It had been delivered with other mail at the house, and
Landson himself brought it down. Grant read it and at first stared at it
somewhat blankly, as one not taking in its full portent.
“Not bad news, I hope?” said his employer, cloaking his curiosity in
commiseration.
“Rather,” Grant admitted, and handed him the letter. Landson read:
“It is our duty to place before you information which must be of a very
distressing nature, and which at the same time will have the effect of
greatly increasing your responsibilities and opportunities. Unless you
have happened to see the brief despatches which have appeared in the
Press this letter will doubtless be the first intimation to you
that your father and younger brother Roy were the victims of a most
regrettable accident while motoring on a brief holiday in the South. The
automobile in which they were travelling was struck by a fast train,
and both of them received injuries from which they succumbed almost
immediately.
“Your father, by his will, left all his property, aside from certain
behests to charity, to his son Roy, but Roy had no will, and as he was
unmarried, and as there are no other surviving members of the family
except yourself, the entire estate, less the behests already referred
to, descends to you. We have not yet attempted an appraisal, but you
will know that the amount is very considerable indeed. In recent years
your father’s business undertakings were remarkably successful, and we
think we may conservatively suggest that the amount of the estate will
be very much greater than even you may anticipate.
“The brokerage firm which your father founded is, temporarily, without
a head. You have had some experience in your father’s office, and as his
solicitors for many years, we take the liberty of suggesting that you
should immediately assume control of the business. A faithful staff
are at present continuing it to the best of their ability, but you will
understand that a permanent organization must be effected at as early a
date as may be possible.
“Inability to locate you until after somewhat exhaustive inquiries had
been made explains the failure to notify you by wire in time to permit
of your attending the funeral of your father and brother, which took
place in this city on the eighth instant, and was marked by many
evidences of respect.
“We beg to tender our very sincere sympathy, and to urge upon you
that you so arrange your affairs as to enable you to assume the
responsibilities which have, in a sense, been forced upon you, at a very
early date. In the meantime we assure you of our earnest attention to
your interests.
“Yours sincerely,
“BARRETT, JONES, BARRETT, DEACON & BARRETT.”
“Well, I guess it means you’ve struck oil, and I’ve lost a good
foreman,” said Landson, as he returned the letter. “I’m sorry about your
loss, Grant, and glad to hear of your good luck, if I may put it that
way.”
“No particular good luck that I can see,” Grant protested. “I came west
to get away from all that bothering nuisance, and now I’ve got to go
back and take it all up again. I feel badly about Dad and the kid;
they were decent, only they didn’t understand me.... I suppose I didn’t
understand them, either. At any rate they didn’t wish this on me. They
had quite other plans.”
“What do you reckon she’s worth?” Landson asked, after waiting as long
as his patience would permit.
“Oh, I don’t know. Possibly six or eight millions by this time.”
“Six or eight millions! Jehoshaphat! What will you do with it?”
“Look after it. Mr. Landson, you know that I have never worried about
money; if I had I wouldn’t be here. I figure that the more money a man
has the greater are his responsibilities and his troubles; worse than
that, his wealth excites the jealousy of the public and even the envy
of his friends. It builds a barrier around him, shutting out all those
things which are really most worth while. It makes him the legitimate
prey of the unprincipled. I know all these things, and it is because I
know them that I sought happiness out here on the ranges, where perhaps
some people are rich and some are poor, but they all think alike
and live alike and are part of one community and stand together in a
pinch--and out here I have found happiness. Now I’m going back to the
other job. I don’t care for the money, but any son-of-a-gun who takes it
from me is a better man than I am, and I’ll sit up nights at both ends
of the day to beat him at his own game. Now, just as soon as you can
line up someone to take charge I’ll have to beat it.”
The news of Grant’s fortune spread rapidly, and many were the
congratulations from his old cow puncher friends; congratulations,
for the most part, without a suggestion of envy in them. Grant put his
affairs in order as quickly as possible, and started for the East with a
trunkful of clothes. But even before he started one thought had risen up
to haunt him. He crushed it down, but it would insist. If only this had
happened a year ago....
Dennison Grant’s mother had died in his infancy, and as soon as Roy
was old enough to go to boarding-school his father had given up
housekeeping. The club had been his home ever since. Grant reflected on
this situation with some satisfaction. He would at least be spared the
unpleasantness of discharging a houseful of servants and disposing of
the family furniture. As for the club--he had no notion for that. A
couple of rooms in some quiet apartment house, where he could cook a
meal to his own liking as the fancy took him; that was his picture of
something as near domestic happiness as was possible for a single man
rather sadly out of his proper environment.
Grant reached his old home city late at night, and after a quiet cigar
and a stroll through some of the half-forgotten streets he put up at one
of the best hotels. He was deferentially shown to a room about as large
as the whole Landson house; soft lights were burning under pink shades;
his feet fell noiselessly on the thick carpets. He placed a chair by a
window, where he could watch the myriad lights of the city, and tried
to appraise the new sphere in which he found himself. It would be a very
different game from riding the ranges or roping steers, but it would be
a game, nevertheless; a game in which he would have to stand on his
own resources even more than in those brave days in the foothills. He
relished the notion of the game even while he was indifferent to the
prize. He had no clear idea what he eventually should do with his
wealth; that was something to think about very carefully in the days and
years to come. In the meantime his job was to handle a big business in
the way it should be handled. He must first prove his ability to make
money before he showed the world how little he valued it.
He turned the water into his bath; there was a smell about the towels,
the linen, the soap, that was very grateful to his nostrils....
In the morning he passed by the office of Grant & Son. He did not turn
in, but pursued his way to a door where a great brass plate announced
the law firm of Barrett, Jones, Barrett, Deacon & Barrett. He smiled
at this elaboration of names; it represented three generations of the
Barrett family and two sons-in-law. Grant found himself speculating
over a name for the Landson ranch; it might have been Landson, Grant,
Landson, Murphy, Skinny & Pete....
He entered and inquired for Mr. Barrett, senior.
“Mr. David Barrett, senior, sir; he’s out of the city, sir; he has not
yet come in from his summer home in the mountains.”
“Then the next Mr. Barrett?”
“Mr. David Barrett, junior, sir; he also is out of the city.”
“Have you any more Barretts?”
“There’s young Mr. Barrett, but he seldom comes down in the forenoon,
sir.”
Grant suppressed a grin. “The Barretts are a somewhat leisurely family,
I take it,” he remarked.
“They have been very successful,” said the clerk, with a touch of
reserve.
“Apparently; but who does the work?”
“Mr. Jones is in his office. Would you care to send in your card?”
“No, I think I’ll just take it in.” He pressed through a counter-gate
and opened a door upon which was emblazoned the name of Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones proved to be a man with thin, iron-grey hair and a stubby,
pugnacious moustache. He sat at a desk at the end of a long, narrow
room, down both sides of which were rows of cases filled with
impressive-looking books. He did not raise his eyes when Grant entered,
but continued poring over a file of correspondence.
“What an existence!” Grant commented to himself. “And yet I suppose this
man thinks he’s alive.”
Grant remained standing for a moment, but as the lawyer showed no
disposition to divide his attention he presently advanced to the desk.
Mr. Jones looked up.
“You are Mr. Jones, I believe?”
“I am, but you have the better of me--”
“Only for the moment. You are a lawyer. You will take care of that. I
understand the firm of Barrett, Jones, Barrett, Deacon & Barrett have
somewhat leisurely methods?”
“Is the firm on trial?” inquired Mr. Jones, sharply.
“In a sense, yes. I also understand that although all the Barretts, and
also Mr. Deacon, share in the name plate, Mr. Jones does the work?”
The lawyer laid down his papers. “Who the dickens are you, anyway, and
what do you want?”
“That’s better. With undivided attention we shall get there much
quicker. I have a certain amount of legal business which requires
attention, and in connection with which I am willing to pay what the
service is worth. But I’m not going to pay two generations of Barretts
which are out of the city, and a third which doesn’t come down in the
forenoon. If I have to buy name plates, I’ll buy name plates of my own,
and that is what I’ve decided to do. Do you mind saying how much this
job here is worth?”
“Of course I do, sir. I don’t understand you at all--”
“Then I’ll make myself understood. I am Dennison Grant. By force of
circumstances I find myself--”
The lawyer had risen from his chair. “Oh, Mr. Dennison Grant! I’m so
glad--”
Grant ignored the outstretched hand. “I’m exactly the same man who came
into your office five minutes ago, and you were too busy to raise
your eyes from your papers. It is not me to whom you are now offering
courtesy; it’s to my money.”
“I am sure I beg your pardon. I didn’t know--”
“Then you will know in future. If you’ve got a hand on you, stick it
out, whether your visitor has any money or not.”
Grant was glaring at the lawyer across the desk, and the
pugnacious-looking moustache was beginning to bristle back.
“Did you come in here to read me a lecture, or to get legal advice?” the
lawyer returned with some spirit.
“I came in here on business. In the course of that business I find it
necessary to tell you where you get off at, and to ask you what you’re
going to do about it.”
The lawyer came around from behind his desk. “And I’ll show you,” he
said, very curtly. “You’ve been drinking, or you’re out of your head.
In either case I’m going to put you out of this room until you are in a
different frame of mind.”
“Hop to it!” said Grant, bracing himself. Jones was an oldish man,
and he had no intention of hurting him. In a moment they clenched, and
before Grant could realize what was happening he was on his back.
He arose quickly, laughing, and sat down in a chair. “Mr. Jones, will
you sit down? I want to talk to you.”
“If you will talk business. You were rude to me.”
“Perhaps. For my rudeness I apologize. But I was not untruthful. And I
wanted to find something out. I found it.”
“What?”
“Whether you had any sand in you. You have, and considerable muscle, or
knack, as well. I’m not saying you could do it again--”
“Well, what is this all about?”
“Simply this. If I am to manage the business of Grant & Son I shall need
legal advice of the highest order, and I want it from a man with red
blood in him--I should be afraid of any other advice. What is your
price? You understand, you leave this firm and think of nothing,
professionally, but what I pay you for.”
Mr. Jones had seated himself, and the pugnacious moustache was settling
back into a less hostile attitude.
“You are quite serious?”
“Quite. You see, I know nothing about business. It is true I spent some
time in my father’s office, but I never had much heart for it. I
went west to get away from it. Fate has forced it back upon my hands.
Well--I’m not a piker, and I mean to show Fate that I can handle the
job. To do so I must have the advice of a man who knows the game. I want
a man who can look over a bond issue, or whatever it is, and tell me
at a glance whether it’s spavined or wind-broken. I want a man who can
sense out the legal badger-holes, and who won’t let me gallop over a
cutbank. I want a man who has not only brains to back up his muscle, but
who also has muscle to back up his brains. To be quite frank, I didn’t
think you were the man. I had no doubt you had the legal ability, or you
wouldn’t be guiding the affairs of this five-cylinder firm, but I was
afraid you didn’t have the fight in you. I picked a quarrel with you to
find out, and you showed me, for which I am much obliged. By the way,
how do you do it?”
Before answering Mr. Jones got up, walked around behind his desk,
unlocked a drawer and produced a box of cigars.
“That’s a mistake you Westerners make,” he remarked, when they had
lighted up. “You think the muscle is all out there, just as some
Easterners will admit that the brains are all down here. Both are wrong.
Life at a desk calls for an antidote, and two nights a week keep me in
form. I wrestled a bit when I was a boy, but I haven’t had a chance to
try out my skill in a long while. I rather welcomed the opportunity.”
“I noticed that. Well--what’s she worth?”
Mr. Jones ruminated. “I wouldn’t care to break with the firm,” he said
at length. “There are family ties as well as those of business. A year’s
leave of absence might be arranged. By that time you would be safe in
your saddle. By the way, do you propose to hire all your staff by the
same test?”
Grant smiled. “I don’t expect to hire any more staff. I presume there is
already a complete organization, doubtless making money for me at this
very moment. I will not interfere except when necessary, but I want a
man like you to tell me when it is necessary.”
Terms were agreed upon, and Mr. Jones asked only the remainder of the
week to clean up important matters on hand. Telegrams were despatched to
Mr. David Barrett, senior, and Mr. David Barrett, junior, and Jones in
some way managed to convey the delicate information to young Mr. Barrett
that a morning appearance on his part would henceforth be essential.
Grant decided to fill in the interval with a little fishing expedition.
He was determined that he would not so much as call at the office of
Grant & Son until Jones could accompany him. “A tenderfoot like me would
stampede that bunch in no time,” he warned himself.
When he finally did appear at the office he was received with a
deference amounting almost to obeisance. Murdoch, the chief clerk, and
manager of the business in all but title, who had known him in the old
days when he had been “Mr. Denny,” bore him into the private office
which had for so many years been the sacred recess of the senior Grant.
Only big men or trusted employees were in the habit of passing those
silent green doors.
“Well Murdy, old boy, how goes it?” Grant had said when they met, taking
his hand in a husky grip.
“Not so bad, sir; not so bad, considering the shock of the accident,
sir. And we are all so glad to see you--we who knew you before, sir.”
“Listen, Murdy,” said Grant. “What’s the idea of all the sirs?”
“Why,” said the somewhat abashed official, “you know you are now the
head of the firm, sir.”
“Quite so. Because a chauffeur neglected to look over his shoulder I am
converted from a cow puncher to a sir. Well, go easy on it. If a man has
native dignity in him he doesn’t need it piled on from outside.”
“Very true, sir. I hope you will be comfortable here. Some memorable
matters have been transacted within these walls, sir. Let me take your
hat and cane.”
“Cane? What cane?”
“Your stick, sir; didn’t you have a stick?”
“What for? Have you rattlers here? Oh, I see--more dignity. No, I don’t
carry a stick. Perhaps when I’m old--”
“You’ll have to try and accommodate yourself to our manners,” said
Jones, when Murdoch had left the room. “They may seem unnecessary,
or even absurd, but they are sanctioned by custom, and, you know,
civilization is built on custom. The poet speaks of a freedom which
‘slowly broadens down from precedent to precedent.’ Precedent is custom.
Never defy custom, or you will find her your master. Humor her, and she
will be your slave. Now I think I shall leave, while you try and tune
yourself to the atmosphere of these surroundings. I need hardly warn you
that the furniture is--quite valuable.”
Grant saw him out with a friendly grip on his arm. “You will need
another course of wrestling lessons presently,” he warned him.
So this was the room which had been the inner shrine of the firm of
Grant & Son. The quarters were new since he had left the East; the
furnishings revealed that large simplicity which is elegance and wealth.
A painting of the elder Grant hung from the wall; Dennison stood before
it, looking into the sad, capable, grey eyes. What had life brought to
his father that was worth the price those eyes reflected? Dennison found
his own eyes moistening with memories now strangely poignant....
“Environment,” the young man murmured, as he turned from the portrait,
“environment, master of everything! And yet--”
A photograph of Roy stood on the mantelpiece, and beside it, in a little
silver frame, was one of his mother.... Grant pulled himself together
and fell to an examination of the papers in his father’s desk.