WHILE THE FATHER WORRIES, MONROE SCHEMES AND CELEBRATES.
"Mr. Winthrope," said Mr. Jarney, abstractedly, pacing his office floor,
with his hands behind his back, and his head bowed in commiseration, "my
daughter is getting no better--no better."
John made no reply, feeling that no reply should be made at that time,
while the father was worrying so; for in that same moment he was moved
himself beyond the efficacy of a consoling word. The garish light of the
burning incandescents, in that late afternoon, was tantalizing and
unbearable. The pictures on the wall stared down like taunting ghosts;
the green-hued carpet and the reflect glimmer of the polished furniture
seemed to reproach them for any sense of alleviation either might feel.
The busy sound, the clamor, the roar and rumble of the streets was a
hideous nightmare dinning in their ears. The heavy pall of smoke that
heaved and rolled over the house-tops, infiltrating in its aqueous
touch, was a magnet of melancholy.
Mr. Jarney stood by the window and looked out upon the flat-roofed
buildings sitting below. He wondered if all the life therein and
thereabout was so torn with dread expectation as his own; or whether any
of them thought of life at all; or of the past, or of the present, or of
the future. All his years he had had no inflictions, no sorrows, no
troubles to set his latent sentimentality into ebullition. He had gone
through the mill of business always prospering, always successful,
always a leader, without a counteractive element to his iron will. He
had gone through his wedded period with a love for his wife, his child
and his home, that was unsurpassable, believing that no untoward thing
could ever happen to disturb the tranquility of his perfect life. He
believed that God had blessed him in this respect alone, to the
exclusion of other men. But now the blasting hand of Fate, he felt, was
turned upon him; and he had no peace while his child lay ill near unto
death.
Back and forth he walked his office floor, in his anguish, fretfully
silent, and deeply feeling for every one who might have a similar
burden to bear. Coming to a stop by John's chair, he gazed down at his
secretary, with a fixedness that caused John to have pity for his
master.
"Mr. Winthrope," he said, "if she dies, my grief will be irreconcilable.
The doctors say there is no hope."
"No hope?" faltered John.
"No hope," and the father sat down and cried.
Tears of sympathy came into John's eyes. Under the trying situation, he
could not control his emotions. The breaking down of that strong man was
more than he could stand, and he arose and walked across the room to a
window, where he stopped for some time looking out, contending with his
own passion. Then he returned to his chair, where he stood in an
undecided frame of mind as to what to say.
"Mr. Jarney, you have my full sympathy," he said, about as expressive as
he could say it, without unburdening his own heart's secret.
"Mr. Winthrope," he replied, turning to John, "it may seem weak in me
giving way so easily; but you do not know, you cannot know what a father
suffers in such extremities--no man can know, if he has a heart, unless
he goes through it as I have these past few weeks. With all my worldly
ambitions, I have willingly permitted my whole being to be infolded by
her being, till no other thought so dominated me. She was such a lovable
child, so good, so kind, so generous, so unlike any one else I ever saw,
that my fatherly soul rebelled at the thought that anything would ever
happen to tarnish her name, or that of my own. Of these things I was
very careful that they did not come to pass. I have brought her up and
educated her, with the one purpose, that she would be my one consolation
in my declining years. And I intend, if she lives, that all I have shall
be hers; and I know that she will give no cause for me to ever regret,
like so many of the daughters of the rich do. I am rich, Mr. Winthrope,
very rich; but I will give all I have, if that would save her for me,
and would face the world anew without a dollar. Oh, you do not
know--nobody can know what my anguish is!"
"Mr. Jarney, I realize what it might be," said John.
"I had hopes that when she came out of the trance the first time the
crisis had passed," he went on. "She did improve for a few days; but
suddenly she took a relapse and began to weaken, and weaken day by day,
and now I fear for the worst. She is of my own flesh and blood--oh, God,
I cannot bear it--yes--I must bear it. But in bearing it, what have I as
a compensation? Money is nothing; home is nothing; life is nothing,
without some one like her depending on you. A child might be ever so
bad, but still a parent's love goes out to it, in all its misfortunes
and shortcomings. But to have a child like her is not given to every
man, and the parent of such a child should be doubly blessed. I know
that I am selfish in these views. I know that other parents will differ
with me in what I say as to my child being the best; but no one can say
that I am wrong did they but know her. I do not know what I shall do, if
she is taken from me--I do not know. I am already losing interest in
things."
"Mr. Jarney," said John, after he had ceased, "I hope the doctors'
conclusions are wrong, and that your expectations will not come to pass.
I believe that she will recover; I have believed it all through her
trial; but I may be mistaken."
"I hope you are not mistaken, Mr. Winthrope," he replied. "I hope I am.
I have never hoped before that I might be mistaken, and I hope I shall
not be disappointed this time."
Mr. Jarney then took up his accumulation of letters, that had not been
attended to for three days, and began dictating answers. He was so
overcome by anxiety, dread and fear, that he had great difficulty in
composing himself sufficiently to go through them all. Some he answered
with a line, where a whole page would have been necessary before. Many
he did not answer at all, being indifferent as to what became of them.
He was nervous, agitated, and careless. After he had finished, although
not very satisfactorily to John, who had been used to his methodical
handling of his correspondence, and after John began to prepare to
depart, he turned to him and said:
"Mr. Winthrope, I am thinking of promoting you; would you like to go to
New York?"
"I should not care to leave you, Mr. Jarney, so agreeable have my
connections been in this office; but if you desire me to make a change,
and if I am capable, I shall go wherever I am sent," said John.
"An assistant treasurer is wanted for the New York office; how would you
like that?"
"Well, Mr. Jarney, this comes as a greater surprise than when you gave
me this position; but, however, I shall accept, if it is the wish of my
superiors."
"They want a man immediately for the place; but--I do not want to see
you go away yet, though I want to see you get the place. You are
capable, and deserving of it."
"I would rather remain here; but if I am to go higher, I suppose I
should go at once to wherever I am to go."
"Another thing, Mr. Winthrope; you should not go while my daughter
continues ill. Or--or--No, you shall remain here till she recovers. Some
one else can fill the place till that time comes. It may seem strange
for me to say so, her recovery may depend upon you remaining. It is only
an hallucination of her mind, I know; but if her seeing you will do any
good, I shall not forget it."
"Do you believe it is an hallucination?" asked John.
"Can be nothing else," he replied, gravely and reflectively. "You were
the last one whom she saw and talked with while in her rational mind.
The doctors say this is invariably true in all such cases--the
impression of that person is indelibly left on the mind of the one
afflicted, and remains there till recovery."
"But Miss Barton was there also," returned John, in disputation of his
theory.
"That is true; but Miss Barton is with her all the time," he replied, as
an argumentative fact.
"It may be," said John, in a deeper quandary than ever. "Then I am to
remain here?"
"Yes--till her recovery, or--Be ready to go home with me an hour later
today--five o'clock," said Mr. Jarney, as John left him.
In the meantime, while the confidential conversation was going on
between master and secretary, Miram Monroe sat in his office scheming
against his employer, against the secretary, and against the sick young
woman, whose knowledge of things worldly was now a blank. It is always
true of men of limited ability that they aim far above the possible.
Monroe, with his microscopic smile this day stretched almost into a
cynical grin, so satisfied was he with his genius, was perusing page
after page of complicated figures. He was doing this mechanically,
though, or otherwise he could not have O K'd them, being as he was in
such a ruminating turn, with his mind set on other things so much dearer
to his undefiling heart. Who was possessed with his special inborn
faculty, qualifying him for his employment? Who had such a special
disposition to accomplish what he purposed? Who had such a presiding
genius for good or evil over the destiny of other men? Why, Miram
Monroe--Mr. Monroe, if you please. He rang a bell. Welty Morne stepped
within, and closed the door behind him, meeting his superior with a
superior smile to that of the rigid face.
"Welty," said Monroe, with the solemnity of a gray goose, "I have seen
the boss of the Board of Directors."
"Well?"
"They have decided, he tells me, to create the office of assistant
treasurer in the New York branch."
"No!"
"Yes," without a crow's foot.
"Good, old boy; we must celebrate it tonight," said Welty, in a whisper.
"And the young chap goes."
"No!"
"Yes," without a wrinkle.
"We must celebrate that tomorrow night--When?"
"At once," without a crack.
"Bully! We must celebrate that the next night--Who?"
"You," without a wink.
"No!"
"Yes," without a twinkle.
"Whee! We'll celebrate that the next night--Where?"
"At the Bottomless Pit," with a microscopic smile. "Be at my room at
nine p. m."
"With joy, old boy; I'll be with you! Hah, you're no two-spot!" With
this Welty expired, almost, over his good feelings that his promotion
brought over him.
The bell rang again. In came Bate Yenger, with a crimped smile on his
stale face.
"Bate, do you want Welty's place?" asked the marble idol.
"Want it?" exclaimed the idolizing Bate. "Can I get it? or are you
buffooning?"
"You have it, Bate," without a twitch.
"When?" asked the anxious Bate.
"Soon," without a quiver.
"Shall we celebrate?" asked Bate.
"We will," with a smack.
"Where?"
"At the Bottomless Pit," with a feathered smile. "Be at my room at nine
p. m."
"Bully!" With this Bate also expired--with joy over his air castles.
Accordingly, at nine p. m., the trio met in rooms Nos. 4-11-44 in the
St. Charles hotel, a hostelry of good repute where men of disrepute
would sometimes get through the cordon of morality that was strung
around it. Monroe had a suite of three rooms, as became a man of
quality, as he was, with no disparagement of the "quality." These
quarters were furnished, of course, in such magnificence that contrast
between the riches of the room and the nature of the man was like the
temperate and the frigid zones. His bed room was in white enamel, with
cream-colored carpet, a frail white iron bed-stead, with dainty white
materials on it. Why the combination? It was that he, when he donned his
white night gown, imagined he would be in a little heaven of his own,
during his nocturnal sojournings into Dreamland--the only heaven he ever
would be enabled to approach, perhaps. He had a lounging room fitted up
in gray, in which he lounged during his hours of rest, and in which he
received his friends. The other room he called the Bottomless Pit--not
that it was bottomless, nor that it was a pit, in the strict sense, but
that here was where he refreshed himself and entertained. It was done in
dark-brown, probably in commemoration of that old jest, "dark-brown
taste the morning after."
Welty and Bate had been there before, so they needed no formal reception
to cause them to make themselves at home. So repairing to the Pit, a
spread was in waiting. The bill-of-fare (ach, god in himmel, it should
be menu) was mushrooms on toast, frogs' legs in butter, calves' brains
in cracker meal, squabs in stew, oysters in whisky, rolls in brown,
butter in squares, sugar in cubes, coffee in percolator, pickles in
acetics, cheese in limburger, nuts in hull, desserts in bottle, and
cigars in box. All this in honor of Monroe's erudition as a manipulator
of things clandestine in his attempt at circumvention of a certain
favored young man.
When they sat down at the table, which was just big enough for three to
hear each other across with loud talk, with the load of savory things in
china, garnished by genuine sterling, upon it, they were all very
hungry, and besides very thirsty.
"Gentlemen," said the stiffness, rising, without a break in his metallic
visage, the others rising with him, "gentlemen, a toast to the lady; may
the good Lord preserve her."
"The lady! the lady!" cried the two Monroe dupes in unison.
"And to Welty and Bate; may they ever prosper in their new jobs," he
continued. "Hah, too conscientiously modest to toast yourselves, are
you?--take water, you kids." This last remark was made by him when he
saw that Welty and Bate hesitated about toasting themselves. However,
they toasted.
Thus they toasted, and they gabbled, and they ate, till all the viands
had vanished, and nothing was left upon the board but the smeared
platters. Then to the bottles they betook themselves with a wild and
merry gusto. Monroe pulled the corks, and poured. He drank, and they
drank. He smoked, and they smoked, till the air was a blue haze of
whirling objects, only to be dispelled by the dark-brown in the morning.
Once, during a fit of eructation, Monroe thought he would surely die,
and got ready to make his will.
"Write it out, Welty," he commanded, in a severe maudlin tone; "and
write it out so that She shall get it all, with a codicil that you and
Bate are to get one-third of what is left, after I am gone. Whoop! Woe
me! Woe me!" he wailed, with his face like that of a gargoyle. "Write it
out before I die," he said, as he went staggering against a wall,
falling over a chair, crushing down a rocker, flailing his hands like
bat's wings, as he retched and perambulated through the Pit.
"Give me a pen first, and paper; I can't write (hic) with my fingers
like a chink," said the hysterical Welty--hysterical in mirth only over
the wild effusions of Monroe.
"I'll write it; I'll write it, if I have to use my toes, if you get me
the ink, or tar, or something else that is black--only get it; get it!"
weeped the disconsolate Bate, who at that moment had a fearsome feeling
that his friend Monroe would die before the act was done, lolling his
head the while over the back of his chair, as if that part of his
anatomy was too loose ever to be set back to its normality.
At this outburst of Bate, Monroe plunged forward through the door of the
Pit to the gray room, and to his secretary, from which he withdrew
everything before he found the ink, the pen and the paper. Returning
with these articles, Welty wrote the will in such hiroglyphic
chirography that a Greely himself could not make it out. But it was
writ, and signed, and sealed in due form. Welty in his hilarity did not
lose sight of its import, and put it away in a secret pocket, for future
use should the occasion ever demand it.
He then shouldered Monroe into his downy bed, in full dress, with "Woe
me! Woe me!" escaping in a groan from his unsmiling lips. Then Welty
took the inebriated Bate, in the completeness of debauch, and rolled
him, shoes and all, into that otherwise spotless couch. Then, before he
should completely lose the balance of his own muddled reason, he also
tumbled into Monroe's heaven, leaving the dark-brown room to clarify
itself of their revelings.
And amid the stillness of the lights, all left burning brightly, they
went sailing into the land of ethereal asphyxia, to await the hour of
the "dark-brown taste" to bring them back to the time of remorse, and
its painful complications.