heavy loan for him. He is paying off the remaining purchase money for
the hotel in installments. That's all, I think. I'll send the Fourth
National Bank of New York a night message. It will be delivered before
banking hours to-morrow morning, but for fear of slips, you'd better
wait till noon before giving that bank as your reference. Good-night.
Remember that everything depends on you--including Guilford Duncan's
reputation for integrity."
Temple sat for half an hour thinking and planning. He was determined to
make no mistakes that might imperil success. To that end he was trying
to imagine, in advance, every difficulty and every emergency that might
arise. At last he rose, took his hat, turned the lamp out, and left the
room.
"This is the very toughest bit of engineering," he reflected, "that ever
I undertook. Well, so much the greater the credit if I succeed. But I
don't care for the credit. I care only for Guilford Duncan in this
case."
XXIV
BARBARA'S ANSWER
When Duncan left his room on the evening of Temple's conference with
Will Hallam, he passed down the stairs and into the Hallam offices,
where he still had a little working den of his own, for use when he did
not care to see the people who sought him at his law office.
As he entered he found a little note upon his desk, and he recognized
Barbara's small round hand in the superscription. Opening the envelope
eagerly he read the few lines within:
You may come for your answer whenever it is convenient--any
evening, I mean, for I am at leisure only in the evenings. There is
a great deal for me to tell you, and it is going to be very hard
for me to tell it. But it is my duty, and I must do it, of course.
I'm afraid it won't be a pleasant evening for either of us.
There was no address, but Duncan observed with pleasure, as a hopeful
sign, that the little missive was signed "Barbara."
"She wouldn't have signed it in that informal way, with only her first
name, if she meant to break off the acquaintance," he argued with
himself. And yet the substance of the note was discouraging in the
extreme, so that Guilford Duncan was a very apprehensive and unhappy man
as he hurried to Barbara's home. He still held her note crushed in his
hand as he entered the house, and he read it over twice while waiting
for her to appear. For this time--the first in his acquaintance with
her--Barbara kept him waiting. She had not meant to do that, but found
it necessary because of her own agitation in anticipation of the
grievous task that was hers to do. She must resolutely bring herself
under control, she felt, before meeting this crisis. She even tried in
vain to "think out" the first sentences that she must speak. Finding
this impossible she gave it up at last, and with all of composure that
she could command, she entered the parlor and stood face to face with
Guilford Duncan.
She could say no word as he stood looking eagerly into her eyes, as if
questioning them. He, too, was silent for perhaps a minute, when at
last, realizing the girl's distressing agitation, he gently took her
hand, saying in his soft, winning voice:
"You are not well. You must sit down."
"Oh, it isn't that," she answered, as she seated herself bolt upright
upon the least easy chair in the room. "It is what I must tell you."
"What is it? I am waiting anxiously to hear."
"You must be very patient then," she answered with difficulty. "It is
hard to say, and I don't know where to begin. Oh, yes, I know now. I
must begin where we left off when--well, that other time."
Duncan saw that she needed assistance, and he gave it by speaking
soothingly to her, saying:
"You are to begin wherever you find it easiest to begin, and you are to
tell me nothing that it distresses you to tell."
"Oh, but all of it distresses me, and I must tell it--all of it."
Again Duncan spoke soothingly, and presently the girl began again.
"Well, first, I can never--I mean I mustn't--I mustn't say 'yes' to the
questions you asked me that other time."
"You mean when I asked if you would be my wife?"
"Yes. That's it. Thank you very much. That's the first thing I am to
tell you."
"Who bade you tell me that?"
"Oh, nobody--or rather--I mean nobody told me I mustn't say 'yes,' but
after I had made up my mind that I mustn't, then auntie said I was bound
to tell you about it all. I wanted to write it, but she said that
wouldn't be fair, and that I must tell you myself."
"But why did you make up your mind that you mustn't say 'yes'? Can you
not love me, Barbara?"
"Oh, yes--I mean no--or rather--I mustn't."
"But if you can, why is it that you mustn't?"
That question at last gave Barbara courage to speak. It seemed to nerve
her for the ordeal, and, at the same time, to point a way for the
telling.
"Why, I mustn't love you, Mr. Duncan, because I cannot marry you. You
see, that would be very wrong. When you--well, when you asked me those
questions, it startled me, and I didn't know what to say, but after you
had gone away that night I saw clearly that I mustn't think of such a
thing. It would be so unfair to you."
"But how would it be unfair? It would be doing the one thing in the
world that I want you to do. It would be giving me the one woman in the
world whom I want for my wife, the only woman I shall ever think of
marrying."
"But you mustn't think of that any more. You see, Mr. Duncan, I am not
fit to be your wife. I should be a terrible drag upon you. You are
already a man of prominence and everybody says you are soon to become a
man of great distinction. You must have a wife worthy of such a man, a
wife who can help him and do him credit in society. Now you know I could
never become that sort of woman. I am only an obscure girl. I don't know
how. I can not talk brilliantly. I couldn't impress people as your wife
must. I am not even educated in any regular way. I've just grown up in
my own fashion--in the shade as it were--and the strong sunlight would
only emphasize my insignificance."
Duncan tried to interrupt, but she quickly cut him short.
"Let me go on, please. You are very generous, and you want to persuade
me that I undervalue myself. You would convince me, if you could, that I
am a great deal worthier than I think myself. I know better. You are
very modest, and you would like to make me believe that you will never
be a much more distinguished man than you are already, but again I know
better. Probably you wouldn't become much more than you are, if you were
to marry me, but that is because I should be a clog upon your life."
"Will you let me say one word at this point, Barbara?" broke in Duncan,
in spite of her effort to prevent.
"You are wronging yourself and you are wronging me. As God lives I tell
you there is no woman in the world so fit to be my wife as you are. My
only wish is that I were worthy to have such a wife! I intend, of
course, to achieve all that I can--to make the best use I can of such
faculties as I possess, but nothing imaginable could so greatly help me
to do that as the inspiration of your love, and the stimulus of knowing
that you were to be always by my side, to share in all the good that
might come to me, to cheer me in disappointment to help me endure, and
above all, to strengthen me for my work in the world by your wise and
loving counsel. For you are a very wise woman, Barbara, though you do
not know it. You look things squarely in the face. You think soundly
because you think with absolute and fearless sincerity. You are shy and
timid, and self-distrustful. Thank God, you will never grow completely
out of that, as so many women do. Your modesty will always remain a
crown of glory to your character. But as you grow older, retaining your
instinctive impulse to do well every duty that may lie before you, you
will acquire enough of self-confidence to equip you for all emergencies.
You are very young yet--even younger in feeling than in years. You will
grow with every year into a more perfect womanhood."
An occasional tear was by this time trickling down the girl's cheeks.
How could it be otherwise when the man she loved and honored above all
others was so tenderly saying such things of her, and to her, with a
sincerity too greatly passionate to be open to any doubt? How could it
be otherwise when she knew that she must put aside the love of this man,
her hero--the only love, as she knew in her inmost soul, that she could
ever think of with rejoicing so long as she should live?
She would have interrupted the passionate pleading if her voice had been
under control. As it was she sat silent, while he went on.
"I have spoken of my ambitions first, and of your capacity to help
them, not because such things are first in my estimation, but because
you have treated them as worthy of being put first. There are much
higher things to be thought of. What a man _achieves_ is of far less
consequence than what a man _is_. That which I ask of you is to help me
_be_ the best that I am capable of being, and for you to _be_ it with
me. I want to make the most, the best, the happiest life for you that is
possible. If I am permitted to do that, with you to help me do it, it
will be an achievement of far greater benefit to the world than any
possible external success can be. The home is immeasurably more
important, as a factor in human life, and in national life, than the
mart, or the senate, or the pulpit, or any other influence can be. It is
in happy homes that the saving virtues of humanity are born and
nourished. From such homes, more than from all the pulpits, and all the
institutions of learning, there flows an influence for good that
sweetens all life, preserves morality, and keeps us human beings fit to
live. Oh, Barbara, you will never know how longingly I dream of such a
home with you at its head! You cannot know how absolutely the worthiness
of my life depends upon such a linking of it with yours."
The girl had completely given way to her emotions now, but with that
resolute self-mastery which was a dominant note in her nature, she
presently controlled herself. The picture that his words had created in
her imagination was alluring in the extreme. But she was strong enough
to put the dream of happiness aside.
"You do not know all," she said. "You have not heard all I have to tell
you. You haven't heard the most important part of it. I have only told
you what I thought on that evening when--when you asked--questions. I
still think that ought to settle the matter, but you seem to
think--perhaps you might have convinced me, or at least--oh, you don't
know! There are other reasons--stronger reasons, reasons that nothing
can remove."
"Tell me of them. I can imagine no reason whatever that could satisfy
me."
"It is very hard to tell. You know I never knew my parents. Both my
mother and my father died on the day I was born. I seem to know my
mother, because auntie loved her so much, and has talked to me so much
about her all my life. But she never talked to me much about my father.
His family was a good one--his father having been a banker, with some
reputation as an artist also, and my father was his partner in business.
But that is all I know of my father--no, that isn't what I meant to say.
I meant to say that that is all my aunt ever told me about him, and all
I knew until the night when you asked me--questions. After you went away
that evening, I went to my room and thought the matter out. I have
already told you what conclusions I reached. When I had decided, I went
to auntie's room and sat on the side of her bed and told her
everything. She cried very bitterly--I didn't understand why at first.
After a while she said she didn't at all agree with me in my
conclusions, and added:
"'If the things you mention were all, Bab, I should tell you to stop
thinking of them, and let Mr. Duncan judge for himself. But there is
something else, Bab--something very dreadful. I never intended to tell
you of it, but now I must. You would find it out very soon, for Tandy's
wife knows it, and if she heard that there was anything between you and
Mr. Duncan, she would make haste to talk of it--particularly after what
has happened between Tandy and Mr. Duncan. Then you would never forgive
me for not telling you.'
"She went on then, and told me what I must tell you. She told me, Mr.
Duncan, that I am the daughter of a Thief!"
The girl paused, unable to go on. Duncan saw that she was suffering
acutely, and he determined to spare her.
"You must stop now, Barbara," he said in a caressing tone. "You are
overwrought. I will hear the rest another time--when you feel stronger
and send for me. I am going to say good-night now, so that you may rest.
But before I go I want to say that nothing you have told me can make the
least difference in my feelings, or my desires, or my purposes. You
_are_ what you _are_. Nothing else matters. When you feel strong
enough, I will come again and persuade you to be my wife. Good-night!"
As she stood facing him, with unutterable distress in every line of her
face, he leaned forward impulsively, but with extreme gentleness, and
reverently kissed her.
XXV
TEMPLE AND TANDY
On the morning after his consultation with Captain Will Hallam, Richard
Temple had his first interview with Tandy. Jewett, the hotel proprietor,
walked with him to the X National Bank, took him into the bank parlor,
and introduced him to the president, intimating that he would probably
wish to do some business with the bank, and assuring Tandy that the
young man was "as square as they make 'em."
Tandy welcomed the visitor cordially, and when Jewett had bowed himself
out, Temple opened negotiations, very cautiously and with every seeming
of indecision, as to what he might ultimately decide to do.
"I have a little money, Mr. Tandy, that I may want to invest. I'm rather
a stranger in Cairo. I wonder if you, as a banker, would mind advising
me. Of course, if I make any investments, I shall do so through your
bank."
"It is my business to advise investors, Mr. Temple, and in your case it
is also a pleasure, if I may be permitted to say so. What are your
ideas--in a general way, I mean?"
"It would be somewhat difficult for me to----"
"Oh, I quite understand. You haven't yet made up your mind. You want to
look about you, eh? Well, that's right. There's more harm done by haste
in making investments than by anything else. There are lots of 'cats and
dogs' on the market. Of course they're a good buy sometimes, if a man
wants to take long chances for the sake of big profits, and if he is in
a position to watch the market. But it's awfully risky. Still----"
Tandy hesitated and did not complete his sentence for a time. He was
wondering just "how much of a sucker" this young man might be. Tandy
himself held some small blocks of securities which might very properly
be reckoned in the feline and canine class. He wondered if it might not
be possible to "work off" some of these, in company with some better
stocks, on this young man. He was closely scrutinizing Temple's visage,
trying to "size him up." After seeming to meditate for a brief space, he
resumed:
"It is risky, of course. Still, if a man is in position to watch the
market closely, and sell out at the proper time, it sometimes turns out
well to buy a few inferior stocks, when buying a lot of better ones.
I've known it to happen that a lucky turn in the market enabled a man
to sell out his inferior stocks at a profit big enough to pay for the
good ones. You see the inferior stocks can be bought for so little on a
dull market, such as we have at present, that there can't be a very
great risk in buying them in moderate quantities, while buying better
securities in the main. And there's always a chance of a lucky turn in
the market, and with it a chance of great profits."
Temple did not interrupt the flow of Tandy's financial exposition. He
had three reasons--all of them good--for wishing Tandy to talk on. In
the first place he was waiting for noonday, before mentioning his credit
in the Fourth National Bank of New York. In the second place it was his
"cue" to sit reverently at the feet of this great financier, and to make
as little display as possible of his own sagacity. Finally, he was
studying Tandy--"sizing him up"--finding out, for future use, all that
he needed to know about the man with whom he had to deal. This was the
result of the "sizing up," as it formulated itself in what might be
called a "first draft," in Temple's mind:
"He's a smooth, plausible, conscienceless scoundrel;
"He's so far filled with self-conceit that it sometimes blinds him;
"He would gladly swindle me out of my eyes, if he could do so without
being caught; but if he can't swindle me, he will be glad to do business
with me 'on the square,' as he would put it."
But Temple wanted to complete and revise and, if necessary, correct this
first draft of his "sizing up," and so he wanted Tandy to go on talking.
"I am not much disposed to speculate in doubtful securities," he said.
"I can't afford it, for one thing, and, of course, I am not in position
to watch the market, as you say. What I would like is to put a few
thousands into some good, safe, dividend-paying security. Of course----"
"You're right, of course. Still, if you choose to take some small risk,
I could watch the market for you. I often do that for customers of the
bank. I'm naturally in a position to know what's going on. By the way,
how much money have you to invest?"
"I have twelve thousand dollars in New York----"
"Where the interest rates are small," interrupted Tandy. "You want to
bring it West, where it will earn more. I understand. You're right in
that. The West is the place for men and money to do the best they can
for themselves. This part of the country is growing like Jack's
beanstalk. You must have noticed it."
"I certainly have. Indeed, I suppose that never before in all history
did any region grow so fast or so solidly."
"There! You've hit the nail on the head," said Tandy. "Solidly! And that
accounts for many things. The conservative people of the East never saw
anything like it, and they can't quite believe it. They don't realize
the wonderful soundness of things out here. They have learned to think
that high interest means poor security. In the East, where there is
plenty of money and very little development going on, it does. But here
in the West the case is different. Here, interest is high and dividends
large, simply because the country is growing so rapidly, and developing
its resources so wonderfully fast. Let me illustrate. My friend, Captain
Hallam, recently bought a mine up the State. It hadn't been properly
developed, so he bought it at a low price and capitalized it at cost,
adding a trifle for improvements. That mine is now paying twenty per
cent, dividends on its stock, in addition to a large expenditure every
month for improvements. Then, again, Captain Hallam is selling off the
farms on the surface at a price that will presently pay the whole first
cost of the mine. When that is done, the mine will stand him in just
nothing at all, and all the dividends the stockholders get will be just
like so much money found--picked up from the prairie grass, I might say.
Is there any danger in that sort of thing? Is a share of that stock a
doubtful security to the man who has already got back the entire
purchase price? True, it pays twenty per cent, dividends on its face,
and that scares the conservative galoots in New York. That's just
because they have got it ground into their minds that high interest
always means poor security. But, come, I want to take you for a drive
around Cairo, to show you what we are doing here and what we are
planning to do. I think when you see it you'll know for yourself where
to put your money. Can you go with me for a drive?"
"Very gladly. But first, I want to arrange to bring to Cairo what money
I have. I may not want to invest it all here, but it will be handy to
have it here. I should like to put it into your bank as a deposit. But I
must draw on New York for it, and get you to take my draft. Won't you
direct your cashier to telegraph the Fourth National Bank of New York,
asking for what amount my drafts on that institution will be honored?
Then, when we get back from our drive, I'll draw for the money and place
it on deposit with your bank, where I can put my hands upon it when
necessary."
The telegram was sent, and then Tandy took Temple in his carriage--one
of the best in Cairo at that time--and showed him all there was of
resource in the town, lecturing, meanwhile, on the prospects of Cairo as
a future great commercial and manufacturing center. He showed him all
there was to be shown, and then said to him:
"Now, I'm an apostle of Western development, but still more I'm an
apostle of the development of Cairo. I'm a bull on the country, and a
bull on this city. There is much to be done, and it will require the
investment of a great deal of money. But the investments will pay as
nothing else promises to do. We must have grain elevators, and mills,
and all the rest of it. We've two big flour mills already, and there
will be two or three more within a year. They must have barrels by
thousands and tens of thousands. Now a man of your intelligence must see
that empty barrels, being bulky, are costly things to transport over
long distances, while the mills must buy them at the lowest possible
price. Otherwise they can't sell flour in competition with the mills of
other cities. So the necessity of having a big barrel factory here is
obvious, and so is the profit. I am just forming a company for that
purpose. We have abundant timber right at hand, just across the two
rivers, in Missouri and Kentucky. We can make barrels at less cost than
they can be had for in any other city, while we have a local market that
will be unfailing. The company is capitalized at twenty-five thousand
dollars, and a good part of it is already subscribed."
He did not say that none of it had been paid for yet, and that he was
unsuccessfully trying to find buyers for it.
"It's a sure thing. The profits will be large from the beginning, and
the stock, as soon as the factory is in operation, will jump up fifty
per cent, at least. If you want a thousand or so of it, I'll let you in
on the ground floor. Otherwise, I'll take it myself."
"That impresses me very favorably," answered Temple truthfully. "It is
an enterprise based upon sound principles--one that offers a supply in
direct answer to a demand. I shall probably decide to take a little of
that stock, if I can get some other securities to go with it. But for a
part of the money I have to invest, I must get stock in some already
established and assured business--I should especially like bank stock,
either in your bank or Captain Hallam's. You see----"
"Oh, yes, I see. You want a nest-egg that will certainly hatch out a
chicken. I'll find it for you. Let's leave that till to-morrow. Anyhow,
I'm an advocate of local investments. I'm putting every spare dollar
I've got into them, and I always advise investors to go into them. We're
planning--Hallam and I--to set up a gas plant here. The city needs it,
and it'll pay from the word go. I'll tell you about that to-morrow. You
see, I want you to know just what we're doing and planning, and then
we'll find the best places for you to put your money into. It's getting
late now, so we'll drive back to the bank. I told the cashier to wait
for us, though of course it's after banking hours."
On their return to the bank each of these men felt that he had "put in a
good day's work." Tandy was sure that by letting the young man have a
few shares in firmly established enterprises, he could "rope him in," as
he phrased it in his mind, for the purchase of some more doubtful
things. Temple, in his turn, was convinced that by buying into some of
Tandy's more speculative enterprises, he could ultimately secure the
shares he had been set to buy in the X National.
The telegraphic reply from the New York Bank had been received and was
altogether satisfactory. So, late as it was, Temple drew on New York for
twelve thousand dollars, and with the draft, opened a deposit account
for that amount in Tandy's bank.
Then he went to his hotel. His first impulse was to send a message to
Captain Will Hallam, asking whether he might take the barrel-factory
stock, and perhaps some other things of like kind, in aid of success in
his mission, but upon reflection he decided to act upon his own
judgment, without consultation or advice. Hallam had given him a free
hand, leaving him to work out the problem in his own way. Any
communication between him and Hallam, or between him and Duncan, would
involve something of risk. So he sat alone in his hotel room, thinking
and planning.