MONROE IS CAUGHT IN A NET OF HIS OWN WEAVING.
Ever efficient and ever advancing, though the time since he left his
mountain home was short, John Winthrope had pressed onward and upward
till he was not only the assistant treasurer in the New York office, but
stood high in the favor of the heads of the great firm; and, if he
continued on his outlined course, promised to enjoy still further favors
and special privileges. His rapid rising, his pecuniary uplift, his
progress in favor, his increasing enjoyment of privilege, his continuing
prosperity, did in nowise diminish his sense of duty, nor beguile him
from that course which he had laid out to follow when he first became
obsessed with the idea of making his mark in the world of finance, as
seen through the eyes of steel and iron.
During all the months, dreary though they were, that he went through in
the city of Pittsburgh, he continued to live, according to his own
adopted code, at the cheap lodging house in Diamond alley. The
emoluments of his position, handsome though they might be considered for
one so young as he, and for one so new in the ranks of the employed,
were not any more compensatory than the allotments, as per schedule of
bills to be met, demanded. For, after paying for his simple lodging, his
small personal requirements, and sequestering a sum for the inevitable
rainy day, he sent the balance to his parents to assist them in the
liquidation of a debt of purchase on their home in the hills beyond the
roar and turmoil of business; to which home he hoped to go sometime, an
ever present dream, to spend his leisure days, or to rest when the
burdens of life should become too great for his shoulders to carry.
Being steadfast of purpose, and retired in a social way, he had it over
other men in his unquenchable ambition to make good--in that, instead of
idling away his time in questionable company, as so many such young men
do, or loafing about clubs being a good fellow at a high cost, he
enlarged his knowledge of the details of business by utilizing his spare
moments in courses of suitable studies, in which he exercised his
energies and ability to their utmost.
After being transferred to his new post, he did not change his plans,
even though his compensation was enhanced to a surprising and very
agreeable amount; nor did he deviate one iota from his habits of living.
He did one thing, however, which is pardonable and commendable, and that
was to dress as became his office with a much more satisfactory and
becoming taste. Blessed with good looks, a frank, open countenance, a
finished polish, and a natural grace, any personal adornment was
befitting to him. In his case, the clothes did not make the man, but the
man made the clothes, as is often true in some men and women. By gradual
degrees, his cheap shop clothes, as they gave way to the ravages of
wear and time, were displaced by stylish modern cuts, tailored and
otherwise; but this only happened as wages increased and exigencies
demanded.
So he may now be seen at his desk in a neatly fitting business suit of
dark serge, with creases in the trousers, and his coat collar always
clean of dandruff and falling hair. His shirt fronts were the nattiest,
his collars the whitest, his ties the neatest, his shoes the highest
polished of anyone in the office. With his dark-brown hair, clear blue
eyes, fair skin, smooth face and dark eyebrows, he could well be envied
by those less gifted.
Still, with all these characteristics, he was the least reconciled to
his lot. In March he was called upon to take his leave for New York. In
March he was compelled to take leave of the sick young woman, whom he
had visited every day without a break for months by force of the most
unusual circumstances that ever came to a young man, or to any man,
perhaps. He had become so accustomed to these daily visits to Edith's
bedside, and had become so fraught with the most formidable fire of
life, that when the final day came round, he seemed to have buried the
object before his going, and lived in a perpetual dream thereafter,
still perplexed and confounded by a mystery.
Edith was not yet well when he last looked upon her face; but signs of
improvement were ever growing brighter. This is what gave him such pain
of heart--the thought that he had to leave when the time had come for
him to see her in her reason. But still, he thought, perhaps it was for
the best. For was she not laboring under an hallucination, a delusion, a
wild estrangement of the senses? And, of course, when she came to
herself, he would, by virtue of the natural laws of caste, have to go
his own way after all, and find solace for his passion in some other
person less worthy. It was better, thought he, that he was away--so far
away that he should never see her again; and time, the sure healer of
all ills, of all regrets, of all sorrows, of all misery, would bind his
wounds from the harrowing effects of proud flesh. He could never hope,
was his everlasting complaint, to vie with other men in the conquest of
her heart. So why fret away his time on such an improbable question?
Seeing all these things in this light, and believing in them seriously
and honorably, he exerted his best endeavors to cast the burden from
his soul. But the burden was too heavily laden to be so easily thrust
aside.
He had not heard from her since the last evening he left her
home--except on one occasion, when a letter from her father to another
member of the firm in the branch office, indirectly referred to her
improving condition. This was all--a very slim thread it was upon which
to build any hope that she, in her enlightening mind, ever again called
for him, which seemed proof sufficient to convince him of his
preconceived opinion.
But--why? but--why? he always asked himself, did she make such an
impression on him, unless he had struck, in her heart, a responsive
chord. No matter how he reasoned, he invariably got back to the premises
of his theme, namely, that he could not hope for any recognition on her
part so long as their stations in life were miles and miles apart.
He had spent many days on this unsolvable proposition, in all its
various phases, and was still weighing it in his mind, even while busily
engaged at his desk, when, one day, Miram Monroe was announced, and led
into his office with all those outrageous formalities that flunkies
about such offices show to their superior beings, who have the brains
and money to conduct gigantic industrial corporations. Mr. Winthrope was
surprised more than he felt able to express himself; but he
good-humoredly extended his hand and saluted him with a cheerful, "How
are you? and how are all the people back in old Pittsburgh," meaning, of
course, the people only in the main office.
Mr. Monroe was as stoical as ever, but he greeted John with considerable
more cordiality than had been his wont. "They are all prospering," he
answered, as he glanced around the room.
John watched him closely, in a critical way, having in mind the telegram
he had received the day previous from Mr. Jarney that said, "Beware of
Monroe." John did not fully understand the meaning of this telegram; but
he read its significance in the face of the man standing now before him,
which, as he then looked at it, presented a mixture of tragedy, comedy,
treachery and sculduggery. He saw these traits now in Monroe, not that
his face had presented them to him on any other occasion, but the
telegram had revealed to him too forcibly what he could not before
comprehend. Why did Mr. Jarney send it, if the coming of Monroe was not
for some insidious purpose? he asked himself.
"You do not often come to New York, Mr. Monroe--at least, not to this
office," said John, breaking the ice for a plunge into Mr. Monroe's
perverseness toward a hateful silence.
"Not often," he answered, extracting some papers from an inside coat
pocket. He began deliberately to run over these papers, as if looking
for a particular one. Finding one that seemed to meet his searching
approval, he drew up a chair to a desk in the middle of the room and sat
down, still very deliberately, with his eyes bent upon the paper that he
held in his hand.
Concluding that Monroe was not willing to be communicative about his
errand, John sat down at his own desk. Scrutinizing Monroe from a side
view, he saw it was the same face that was so indefinable to him in his
apprenticeship in the head office; the same lengthened visage that then
struck him so forcibly as that of a mountebank, clothed in undeserving
power; the same white, wrinkleless skin that reminded him perpetually of
a true portraiture of a ghost. John sat spell-bound, drawn irrisistably
to this peculiarly eccentric man.
Monroe sat pouring over his papers, as if it had been his custom to come
there every day and do the same thing, unbelievably composed in his
manner. To John, there was a mephistophelean aspect about Monroe, as he
sat at the desk, apparently in the throes of some abstruse problem that
he could not readily make out. But, however, after awhile Monroe seemed
to have reached a solution of what he was delving into, and directly
turned and faced John, with his usual inane stare.
"Mr. Winthrope," said he, with no change in the monotonous enunciation
of his words, so precise did he give utterance to them, "there seems to
be an error in your accounts, which indicates a shortage in this
office."
"An error! A shortage!" gasped John, as if he had been stabbed from
behind with a dagger.
"Yes;" answered Monroe very slowly, very mouse-like, very aggravatingly,
"a shortage--or an error." He straightened up in his chair, after saying
this, to see the effect of his assertion in John's countenance.
Recovering his composure in a moment or so, John drew down his eyebrows
to a scornful straightness, and glared at his accuser. John was not very
often convertable to such an exhibition of temper; but when his name and
his honor were brought under reproach, his resentment became visibly
uncontrollable.
"Do you mean, Mr. Monroe," said John, looking straight into his
gray-green eyes, "that I am short in my accounts with this office?"
"That is my intimation," replied the insinuating Monroe, opening his
mouth squarely at the emphasizing of "my". "I have been sent here to
have a reckoning with you."
The very bluntness of his statement was so monstrous to John, that he
could not, for a short time, comprehend what it meant for him. The very
essence of the assertion was too much for his grasp, so horrified was he
for the few moments that he sat facing the serene detractor of his
character. The very thought of such a crime was so contrary to his
nature, that he was almost blind from the sensations of the blow
coursing through him.
"Are you in earnest? or are you here to jest with me, Mr. Monroe?" asked
John, rousing himself to face the inevitable.
"I am in dead earnest," answered Monroe.
"Then you," responded John, weighing his words, "lie--or some one
else--is lying--for--you."
"Don't get agitated and go off half-cocked," said Monroe, in the same
icy tone as before. "I'll show to you, in due time, where you have been
peculating."
At first, John was on the point of taking physical issue with the
challenger of his good name; but remembering the significant telegram
from Mr. Jarney, and remembering also that he was at a disadvantage with
Monroe over the question of fact, he subdued his passionate feelings,
and thought he would parley for time to await the coming of Mr. Jarney
before long.
"Some one has been doctoring the books," said John, smoothly, "if there
is an apparent defalcation. I know what I have been doing, Mr. Monroe.
My cash has balanced each day. My accounts in this office are straight,
Mr. Monroe. I am straight, Mr. Monroe. You are crooked. And I will have
no more from you till my superiors have been consulted."
"Well, Mr. Winthrope," responded Monroe to John's asseveration, "I am
the auditor of the firm for this office, and I am to be consulted first.
According to our books you are short. I was, therefore, sent here to
have an accounting with you, and if I find that our books are correct
and your accounts wrong, I am to have a warrant issued for your arrest.
Believe me, Mr. Winthrope, when I say that I find an error which
indicates peculating on your part. I do not want to see your name
blackened by an exposure that would naturally follow should I take it in
my head to proceed against you. I have a free hand to act any way I
choose, be that what it may. Now, I can fix this matter up for you so
that no word of it will get out, and so that you can leave with money in
your pockets, and mine, and no one will be the wiser. I can compromise
the matter by you being reasonable. Will you be reasonable and enter
into my scheme?"
John was surely astounded at this long speech of Monroe's. He studied a
short moment. He did not want to compromise himself with Monroe in any
scheme that, if he were guilty, would cover up the crime with which he
was charged. If he was found to be responsible for any shortage, he was
fully willing to take the consequences which arrest and exposure might
entail, rather than attempt to clear himself of the blame, if blamable.
But not being guilty, as he had good reason to believe, he held that
justice, unless mercilessly blind, would deal fairly with him. Moreover,
he would be making a mistake if he did not draw Monroe out, and secure
from him his plan of a secret compromise.
"How would you propose compromising the matter, if I am guilty?" he
asked.
"By leaguing with you," answered Monroe, artlessly.
"Leaguing with me?" said John, doubtful of his meaning.
"Yes," he answered. "I have a draft here for one hundred thousand, made
payable to the treasurer of the New York office. You can get the money
yourself by signing it as assistant treasurer. Get it, and we will
divide the amount. I will fix the books at the other end so that a
discovery cannot be made till we are safely in Europe or South America.
Will you do it?"
A new idea came to John, growing on him gradually as Monroe unfolded his
nefarious scheme.
"Yes; I will do it," he answered, with alacrity. "Where is the draft?"
Monroe immediately pulled the draft from an inside pocket of his vest.
He looked it over, as if he regretted to give it up; then he turned it
over to John, with a hesitating hand.
"Get the money," said Monroe, without an intimation that he was pleased,
or not pleased, over the readiness with which John seemed to be falling
into his trap.
John leisurely put the draft with a number of other drafts he had in his
possession belonging to the firm, placed them all together in the firm's
bank book, and retreated, without a word, from the enervating
personality of Monroe. After depositing the entire sum in the name of
the firm, he returned to the office to report to Monroe.
"That is rather a crude piece of business, Mr. Monroe," said John, as he
entered the office. Standing with folded arms on the opposite side of
him at the flat-top desk, he gave a laugh, and smiled sarcastically, as
he said: "Crude! I should say; so crude that it smells of rusted iron!"
Monroe looked up nonplused at the haughty and sneering tone of his
inferior; but he showed no irritation.
"Did you get the money?" asked Monroe, blandly.
"I did," answered John, good naturedly.
"Well, divide up," said Monroe, having doubts.
"Oh, I forgot to return with it, Monroe," replied John, as he laughed in
his superior's face. "I placed it to the credit of the firm. Believing
there was no hurry about dividing up, and thinking tomorrow would do as
well as today for that little formality, I changed my mind between here
and the bank. The money will keep where it is, Mr. Monroe."
The door of the office opened. The form of Mr. Jarney stood in it for a
brief time. Then he closed the door and stood inside the room. He did
not advance at once. As Mr. Monroe saw him first, his face took on a
yellow pallor. John noticed the change in the coloring of his marbled
visage, and turned about. Seeing who the intruder was, he took a few
steps across the room, and lively grasped his former master by the hand.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Jarney; very glad," said John.
Mr. Jarney, in turn, greeted John very warmly, and said he was
inexpressively happy to see him looking so robust, and hoped that he
was still the same unpolluted young man as when he first met him. All of
which abashed John so that he blushed.
"Did you get my telegram?" he asked John, yet not turning to greet
Monroe, who sat without a tremor at the desk.
"Yes; I have been looking for you all day," replied John. "Here is Mr.
Monroe," he said, as he turned and waved his hand toward that brazen
piece of trickery.
"Yes; yes; I see Mr. Monroe," said Mr. Jarney, shooting his sharpened
glances at him. "I came here to see about some little tricks he is up
to. What have you accomplished, Mr. Monroe?"
"Aren't you laboring under a misapprehension, Mr. Jarney?" asked the
ghost.
"Oh, not at all, Mr. Monroe," said Mr. Jarney. "I have found you out. I
came here to beard you before this young man," rising almost to the
angry point in the vehemence of his threat.
"Why, Mr. Jarney," said the lamentable Monroe, "what have I done that
you, whom I have always served so faithfully, should hurl aspersions
upon my name and cast reflections upon my integrity?"
"Your name and integrity!" said Mr. Jarney, with rising voice. "You
haven't either. Where is that draft and those office books? Turn them
over immediately to Mr. Winthrope here for safe keeping."
"I have already deposited the draft," interrupted John. "Mr. Monroe
proposed to me that we cash it and divide the money. I assented--of
course not. He has accused me of being short in my accounts. But he
lies--I am not afraid of an investigation, Mr. Monroe."
"Is this true, Mr. Monroe?" asked Mr. Jarney, fiercely, and piercing him
through and through with his firmness.
Mr. Monroe cowered before Mr. Jarney's rage, like an abject criminal
brought to the confession stage of his stricken conscience, but as blank
as ever.
"Is this true, Mr. Monroe?" demanded Mr. Jarney again, still upbraiding
him by his fierce tone.
"I am afraid it is," responded Monroe, meekly, with a crestfallen tone,
but no change in his countenance.
"I am very sorry for you, Mr. Monroe," said Mr. Jarney, relentingly. "I
was infuriated with you a moment ago, and meant to be harsh; but now all
that I can say is, that you deserve my pity. Ingratitude is the worst of
all mean traits, Mr. Monroe. My advice to you, coupled with my
injunction, is that you hasten to the Pittsburgh office, close up your
accounts and leave the employment of the firm, taking the other two
dupes with you. You may go now. I have no further use for you here."
Mr. Monroe sat dumbly under this withering dressing up; but he was
obdurate in his inexpressiveness. Taking Mr. Jarney's cue, he arose, put
on his hat, and departed, without a farewell to either one.
That was the last they ever saw of poor Monroe, alive. His body was
found next day on a muddy shore, where the sewer rats fight among
themselves for a share of the food that the foul sewage spews out with
its bile.