A RAY OF SUNLIGHT
For a week the panic held the financial world in the grip of death. A
dozen banks had closed their doors and a score of men who had long
boasted their courage among men had died the death of cowards when put
to the test.
One of the most curious results of the panic was the revulsion of
popular feeling against the daring and honest young officer of the law
who had rendered the greatest service to the people wrought by any
public servant in a generation.
His enemies saw their opportunity. When the panic was at its worst they
opened their artillery of slander and falsehood. The people who
yesterday had shouted his praises for the fearless work in their behalf
joined his enemies and vied with each other now in reviling him. He was
hailed as the arch traitor of the people, the man who had used his high
office to produce a panic and carve a fortune out of the ruin of
millions whose deposits were tied up in banks that might never again
open their doors.
Stuart, stung to desperation by their infamous charges, attempted at
first to repel them. He stopped at last in disgust and maintained
afterward a dignified silence.
From the first day of the run Bivens had laughed in the face of the
crowd that besieged the door of his big Broadway bank. He stood on top
of the granite steps and shouted in their faces:
"Come on, you dirty cowards! I've got your money inside waiting for
you, every dollar of it, one hundred cents on the dollar!"
The crowd made no reply. They merely moved up in line in stolid silence
a little closer to the door. Each day this line had grown longer.
Bivens was not worrying. The king had spoken. The people outside did
the worrying. They had lost faith in everything and every man. What
they wanted was cash. They camped on the doorstep at night and in grim
silence held their place in line.
The folly of these people in their insane efforts to wreck Bivens's
bank was making impossible a return to normal business.
Stuart determined to face this crowd and have it out with them. He
believed that a bold appeal to their reason would silence his critics
and allay their insane fears.
He told Bivens of his purpose over the telephone, and the financier
protested vigorously:
"Don't do it, Jim, I beg of you," he pleaded. "It will be a waste of
breath. Besides, you risk your life."
"I'll be there when the bank opens at ten o'clock to-morrow morning,"
was the firm answer.
Stuart left his office at three and hurried to his room. He wished to
be alone and collect the vague ideas of passionate appeal which he felt
rioting through his mind. He stood by his window looking across the
square. The fall winds had strewn the grass with dead leaves and the
half-bare limbs swayed desolately. The big houses on the north side,
were unusually quiet. He could see crêpe fluttering from two doors. The
widow of the dead president of a suspended bank lived in one of them;
in the other the widow of a great man who was found dead in his office
the second day of the panic. He had been buried yesterday.
A feeling of stupid depression crept over his senses, and held them in
its deadly embrace. He couldn't think. He gave up the effort and asked
Harriet to go with him for a ramble over the hills, up the Hudson. They
took the subway to the end of the line, climbed to the top of the hills
overlooking the river, sat down in the woods on a fallen tree and
watched the sun slowly sink in scarlet glory behind the Palisades.
Neither had spoken for several minutes. He loved these rambles with his
slender golden-haired little pal, because it wasn't necessary to talk.
She had developed the rarest of all gifts among womankind, a genius for
silence. He wondered at it, too, for she was such a little chatterbox
as a kid.
A squirrel climbed down from a tree nearby where he was storing his
winter food, paused, and looked up in surprise at his unexpected
visitors. Stuart smiled and pressed Harriet's hand, nodding toward the
squirrel. She smiled an answer in silence. The faintest little flush
tinged the smooth white skin of her neck at the touch of his hand, but
he never noticed it.
A ruffled grouse suddenly sprang on the end of the log, cocked his head
in surprise and stood trembling with fear, uncertain whether the
intruders in his domain were friend or foe.
Harriet saw him first, gently pressed Stuart's hand and whispered:
"Look, Jim."
As Stuart turned his head, the bird rose with a roar that brought a cry
of terror to the girl's lips. Involuntarily she gripped his hand and
nestled closer.
"Scared you out of a year's growth, didn't he?"
"He certainly did."
"What a flood of memories the whir of those wings brings back to my
tired soul," Stuart dreamily cried; "of woods and fields and hills and
valleys of the South, where men and women yet live a sane human life!
I'd begun to forget there were any hills and fields."
"I wish I lived down South, Jim!"
"Why?"
"I don't know, it's just an idea of mine. I suppose I get it from
hearing you tell about their old-fashioned ways, their neighbourly
habits and the sweet home life."
The man was silent. The deep soft note of a mallard drake far above the
treetops caused him to look up.
He seized Harriet's arm.
"Watch now, little pal--the river--you'll see a flock of ducks swing
into that open space under the sun!"
He had scarcely spoken when the ducks circled the broad sweep of the
river in a graceful curve, their wings flashing in the rays of the
setting sun, and slowly one at a time dropped their feet and pitched in
the little smooth bay at the foot of the hill. The sun was just sinking
behind the tree tops on the Palisades, lighting the calm mirror-like
surface of the water with every colour of the rainbow.
"Now, look behind you, dear!" Stuart exclaimed.
"Why, it's the moon just rising, isn't it? I never saw the moon rising
through the treetops before. It's glorious, isn't it?"
"Yes, it's full moon to-night. See how high the tide is on the river
banks. It's just high water now--the highest, fullest tide of the
month. It will be less to-morrow and the next and the next day until it
falls back to its lowest point two weeks from now, then starts climbing
up again for the next full moon. Every sailor, man and bird, knows
this. I wonder how many men and women in this money-mad city know that
the tide ever ebbs and flows around Manhattan Island at all."
"It's wonderful--isn't it?"
"What dear, the men and women of New York or the tides?"
"Both, Jim, when we try to understand them, isn't it all God's work?"
"I don't know, child. I sometimes think God made the world and only man
or the devil built the cities afterward. I believe the reason why the
spirit grows savage and we forget that we are human here so often is
that we never see the sun or moon. We never hear the stir of wings in
the sky, feel the throb of Nature's heart in the ebb and flow of tides,
or walk with our heads among the stars."
Harriet sat in thoughtful silence a while and a curious searching look
crept into her eyes as she softly asked:
"You have seen much of Mr. Bivens lately, Jim--I've wondered if you
have never yet looked your dead love in the face?"
"No, little pal."
"You are still afraid?"
An answer started to his lips and he choked it back.
She laid her warm hand on his.
"Tell me, I want to help you. We _are_ pals, you know."
"Well, I'm ashamed to confess it dear, but I am afraid, horribly
afraid! I've been fighting some grim battles, but I'll have to see her
sooner or later."
"I wish you wouldn't," the girl said, wistfully.
"I'll try to keep away--but every turn in the wheel seems only to bring
us closer. My association with Bivens in this prosecution of crime was
not of my choosing, but it came. I shall be compelled to see him
often."
"Does she know that you are afraid?"
"I think not. She feels that I've never forgiven her treachery, but
come, dearie, it's growing dark, we must hurry. I've a hard night's
work before me. You've helped me immensely."
"How?"
"I don't know, child. The sunlight just seems to get tangled in your
hair, and it always shines in your eyes day and night. You warm me into
life and health, just being near you."
Harriet smiled tenderly, and hurried across the hills in silence by his
side.
When they passed out of the last clump of trees near the subway station
she looked up into his face and slowly asked:
"Did any one else ever have that effect on you, Jim?"
"Yes," he answered soberly.
"Who?"
The question was asked in a low whisper, but it was not so low that
Stuart failed to catch its accent of pain.
He laughed, teasingly.
"My mother."
"And no one else?"
"No one else."
"Well, I'm jealous of that sort of influence. I wish a monopoly."
"You have it, dear. Somehow others bring pain and storm and stress. But
you have always brought peace and rest."
"Then I'm content."
She looked up and laughed softly.