The telephone operator in E. H. Merriwether's office manipulated the
plugs in the switchboard and answered in advance:
“Mr. Merriwether's office!”
From the other end of the wire came:
“This is the Rivulet Club. Mr. Waters wishes to speak to Mr. E. H.
Merriwether. Personal matter.”
“He's engaged just now. Will any one else do?”
“No. Say it is Mr. Waters--about Mr. Tom Merriwether.”
People resorted to all manner of tricks and subterfuges to speak to Mr.
E. H. Merriwether--deluded people who thought they could get what they
wished if only they could speak to Mr. Merriwether himself. They never
succeeded. He was too well guarded by highly paid experts who prevented
the waste of his precious time. But the telephone operator knew her
business. She switched the would-be conversationalist on to the private
secretary's line, saying: “Mr. Waters, Rivulet Club, wishes to speak to
Mr. E. H. in regard to Mr. Tom Merriwether.”
“I'll talk to him,” hastily said the private secretary.
“Hello, Mr. Waters! This is McWayne, Mr. Merriwether's private
secretary. Has anything happened to Tom that--Oh! Yes--of course! At
once, Mr. Waters.”
McWayne then had the operator put Mr. Waters on Mr. E. H.'s wire.
“Who?” said the czar of the Pacific & Southwestern. “Waters? Oh yes. Go
ahead!”
And Mr. E. H. Merriwether heard, in a young man's voice:
“Say, Mr. Merriwether, some of the fellows here thought I'd better speak
to you about Tom. He's been acting kind of queer; of course I don't mean
crazy or--er--alarming; but--don't you know?--unusual.... Yes, sir! A
little unusual for him, Mr. Merriwether. To-day it was about the opera.
Says he's got to get a certain seat, no matter what it costs. Of course
it isn't our business.... Oh no! he never drinks too much. No; never! We
don't think we are called on to follow him to the Metropolitan, where he
has just gone; but we thought you ought to know it. Please don't bring
us into any--you know we are very fond of Tom; and we were a little
worried, he's been so unlike himself lately. We teased him about
being in love, and he--er--he seemed to get quite angry.... Yes, Mr.
Merriwether; we'll keep you posted; and please don't give me away. It
was a very delicate matter and--Don't mention it, Mr. Merriwether. We'd
all do anything for Tom, sir. Good-by.”
E. H. Merriwether, the greatest little cuss in the world, as his
admirers called him, hung up the telephone. His face, that impassive
gambler's face which never told anything, now showed as plainly as could
be that he was wounded in a vital spot.
His son Tom was all this great millionaire had!
His railroad became so much junk and his vast plans just so much waste
paper as he thought of Tom. Was the boy going insane? Was it drugs? Was
it one of those mysterious maladies that break millionaires' hearts by
baffling the greatest physicians of the entire world and being beyond
the reach of gold? Or was it a joke? Young Evert Waters was a friend
of Tom's; but might not he exaggerate? He rang the bell for his private
secretary.
“McWayne, send somebody with brains to the Metropolitan Opera House to
find out whether my son Tom has been up there--box-office--and what he
is up to. I want to know how he acts. I want to know where the boy
goes and what he does, whom he sees and where. Get some specialist
on--er”--he could not bring himself to say mental diseases--“on nervous
troubles, and make an appointment with him to come to my house to-morrow
morning. He will have breakfast with us--say, at eight-thirty. I don't
want Tom to know.”
He avoided McWayne's eyes.
“Yes, sir,” said McWayne.
“Be ready to notify the papers to suppress any and all stories about
Tom. I fear nothing and expect nothing, because I know nothing. Drop
everything else and attend to these matters at once. I have heard that
Tom is acting a little queer. It may be a lie or a joke--or a trick. I
want to find out--that's all.”
He would learn before he acted decisively. He stared at a pigeonhole in
his desk marked T. T. M. There he kept all letters Tom had written him
from boarding-school and from college. Presently he raised his head and
drew a deep breath. There was no need to worry until he knew. It would
be a waste of energy and of time; and, for all his millions, he could
not afford the waste. He rang a bell; and when a clerk appeared he said
in his calm, emotionless voice:
“I'll see Governor Bolton the moment he comes in.”
There was a big battle on between capital and labor. He was in the thick
of it. He put Tom out of his mind for the time being. He could do that
at will; but he could not put Tom out of his heart--this little chap
that people called ruthless.
V
Tom Merriwether went to the box-office at the Metropolitan and said,
pleasantly, as men do when they ask for what they know will be given to
them:
“I want the seat just back of G 77--orchestra--for to-night. I suppose
it will be H 77.”
The clerk, who knew the heir of the Merriwether millions, said, “I'll
see whether we have it, Mr. Merriwether.” He saw. Then he said, with
sincere regret: “I'm very sorry. It's gone.”
“I must have it,” said Tom, determinedly.
“I don't quite see how I can help you, Mr. Merri-wether. I can give you
another just as--”
“I don't want any other seat. Who bought it?”
“I don't know. It may be a subscription seat, sold months ago.”
“It's the double seven on the seventh row that I am concerned about. I
want the seat just back of it.”
“I'll call up the ticket agencies. There's a bare chance they may have
it.” After a few minutes he said, “I'm very sorry, Mr. Merriwether, but
I can't get it. They haven't it.”
“I'm willing to pay any price for H 77. I'll give you a hundred dollars
if you--”
“Mr. Merriwether, I couldn't do it if you offered me a thousand! If I
could do it at all I'd be only too glad to do it for you--for nothing,”
the clerk said, and blushed.
Everybody liked Tom.
The sincerity in the clerk's voice impressed young Mr. Merriwether, who
thanked him warmly and withdrew. The baffled feeling that he took away
with him from the ticket-window grew in intensity until he was ready to
fight.
It was a natural-enough impulse that led him back to 777 Fifth Avenue;
but he was not quite sure whether he was angry at the man for telling
him to do what was obviously impossible or at himself for determining to
find her!
He rang the bell of the house of mystery. The footman that answered was
one of the intelligent four; but his face was impassive, as though he
had never before seen Tom.
“Your master?” asked Tom, abruptly.
“Your card, please,” said the footman, impassively.
Tom gave it to him. The man disappeared, presently to return.
“This way, sir.” And at the door in the rear he paused and announced,
“Mr. Merriwether!”
The master of the house was in his usual place. He bowed his head
gravely and waited.
“I couldn't get the seat,” said Tom, with a frown.
“It is written, 'Vain are man's efforts!'”
“That's all very well, my friend. But the next time--”
“Fate deals with time--not with next time! There is no certainty of any
time but one. If you can do nothing I can do nothing. I still say, The
seat back of G 77 to-night.”
Tom Merriwether looked searchingly into the calm eyes before him. The
baffled feeling returned; also, a great curiosity. What would the end
be? At length he said, “Good day, sir.” He half hoped the man would
volunteer some helpful remark.
“Good day, sir,” said the man, with cold politeness.
Tom went back to the Opera House and asked for somebody in authority
to whom he might talk. They ushered him into Mr. Kirsch's presence. Mr.
Kirsch, amiable by birth, temperament, and training, listened to him
with much gravity; also, with a concern he tried to conceal, for it was
too sad--a bright, clean-living, intensely likable chap like Tom, only
heir to the Merriwether millions!
Fearing a scene, he told Tom that he would speak to the ticket-takers in
the lobby to be on the lookout for ticket H 77. Then he conferred with
the emissary McWayne had sent, who thereupon was able to send in a most
alarming report.
The private secretary softened it as much as he could, and even dared to
suggest to the chief that it might be a bet; but the little czar of
the Pacific & Southwestern, who had never flinched under any strain
or stress, grew visibly older as he heard that his son was offering
thousands for an opera-seat--for the seat back of the double seven,
seventh row. It could mean but one thing!
Tom was so fortunate as to be standing beside the ticket-collector at
the middle door of the main entrance when the owner of H 77 appeared. He
was a fat man with a pink and shiny face, a close-cropped mustache, and
huge pearl studs. The fat man was fortunately alone.
“Sir,” said Tom, “I should like to speak a moment with you.”
The man looked apprehensive. Then he said, “What is it about?”
“For very strong personal reasons I should like to exchange tickets with
you. I can give you G 126--every bit as good--on the other side of the
aisle.”
“Why should I change?” queried the shiny-faced man, suspiciously.
“To oblige a very nice young lady and myself. Of course, if you prefer
to be paid--”
“I don't need money.”
“Well, I'll pay you a hundred dollars for your ticket,” said Tom,
coldly.
The man shook his head from force of habit, in order that Tom might see
he was offering too little. Then he said, recklessly:
“It's yours, my friend. I have a pet charity. I'll give your money to
it. Where's the hundred?”
Tom took out a small roll of yellow bills, pulled off one, and handed it
to the man with the pet charity, who took it, looked at it, nodded, put
it in his pocket, gave the coupon to Tom, and then held out his right
hand.
“Where is the ticket for G 120 that you'll give me in place of mine?”
Tom gave it to him and walked into the house, not knowing that McWayne's
emissary had listened and reported. He sat in H 77 and tried to laugh
at his own absurd behavior; but somewhere within him--away in, very
deep--something was thrillingly alert, tantalizingly expectant.
The seat before him was empty. It remained empty during the first act.
It angered Tom that the climax should be so long in coming. The three
seats in front of him remained vacant until just before the curtain went
up on the last act. Somebody came in just as the lights were lowered and
occupied seat G 77.
Tom sat up and braced himself. He leaned over, vaguely desiring to be
near her. Unconscious that he was under a strain he, nevertheless, drew
a deep breath.
Instantly there came to him the odor of sweet peas, and with it thoughts
of summer, of a beautiful girl, of a soul-mate, of a wife. Love filled
his being. He wished to love and be loved. He wished to be somebody's
husband, so that he might begin to live the life he was to live until
the day of his death!
He leaned back in his chair and again inhaled the fragrance of sweet
peas--the odor that must mean kisses in the open; the inarticulate
love-making of breezes and blossoms; the multitudinous whispers of
midsummer nights heard by love-hungry ears. And then the music! There
came the breaking of a heart about to cease beating and the sobbing
crash of the brasses in the finale. It was almost more than Tom could
bear.
Then the curtain fell and light flooded the house. People streamed out.
Tom twisted and turned to see the face of the lady who made him think
of the sweet peas, which made him think of love and marriage and
children--but she was wrapped to the cheeks in a fur-edged opera-cloak
and her head was covered with a black-lace wrap. He could not see her
face; and after rivulets of people reached the main stream in the middle
aisle he found himself hopelessly separated from her. He tried to jostle
his way through. McWayne, his father's private secretary, suddenly
happened to be there.
“Hello, Tom!” he said. “What's your rush?”
Tom saw that it was useless to pursue the phantom of sweet peas and
dreams of love unless he vaulted over the stalls. McWayne's presence
made him realize how his friends would be shocked by such actions.
“No hurry at all,” said Tom, who, after all, was a Merriwether. “Just
wanted to smoke and to see whether I knew that girl.”
“I'll bet she's a pippin!” said McWayne, with a friendly smile. It
irritated Tom.
“I don't know any of your friends,” said Tom, coldly; “lady friends and
pippins, fellows like you call them, I believe.”
That was what convinced McWayne that the worst was to be feared about
poor Tom, who was so considerate and amiable when normal. Poor Tom!
McWayne telephoned to the waiting E. H. Merriwether, whose only reply
was to ask the private secretary to arrange to have Dr. Frauenthal,
the great specialist, at breakfast in the Merriwether house the next
morning, without fail.
It was a common occurrence for Dr. Frauenthal to meet--under false
pretenses, as it were--persons whose sanity was suspected by fond
relatives who dared not openly acknowledge their suspicions. He was a
man whose eyes had been compared to psychic corkscrews, with which he
brought the patient's secret thoughts to the light of day. Some one
said of him that, by inducing a feeling of guilt and detection among the
predatory rich, he was able to exact colossal fees from them. He was the
man who had made Ordway Blake give up making six millions a year in Wall
Street by quitting the game. Mr. Blake was still alive.
Frauenthal was introduced to Tom as a gentleman whose advice “E. H.”
desired. The men conversed on various topics apparently haphazard; but
in reality Tom, without knowing it, was answering test questions. The
answers could not conclusively prove insanity, but they would certainly
show whether a more thorough examination was necessary.
Mr. Merriwether and Frauenthal left the house together. They entered the
waiting brougham. The great little railroad magnate gave the address of
the doctor's office to the footman, then turned to Frauenthal and said,
calmly:
“Well, what do you think of him?”
His voice was steady and cold; his face imperturbable; his eyes were
fixed with intelligent scrutiny on the specialist's, but his fingers
tightly clutched a rolled morning newspaper.
Frauenthal turned his clinical stare on E. H. Merriwether, as though the
financier were really the patient. He swept the little man's face--the
eyes, the mouth, and the poise--and then let his eyes linger on the
clenched fingers about the newspaper.
The iron-nerved, glacial-blooded, flint-hearted Merriwether could not
control himself after forty-five seconds of this. He flung the newspaper
on the floor violently.
“Go ahead!” he said, harshly.
The doctor did not smile outwardly; but you felt that within himself
he had found an answer to one of his own unspoken questions about the
father of the suspect.
“There are, Mr. E. H. Merriwether,” he began, in the measured tones
and overcareful enunciation of a lecturer at a clinic, “various
forms of--let us say--madness; and your son Tom, a fine young man of
twenty-eight, is quite unmistakably suffering from--”
He paused to give the fine young man's emotionless father an opportunity
to show human feelings. Frauenthal was always interested in the struggle
between the emotional and the physical in his millionaire patients.
“Go on!” said E. H. Merriwether, so very coldly as to irritate.
His eyes never left the alienist's own secret-draggers; but he was
drumming on his thigh with the tips of his uncontrollable fingers.
Ordinarily his desk would have screened from sight this betrayal of
human feeling.
“Your son, sir, is suffering, beyond any question, from the oldest
madness of all--love!”
“What?”
“Your son Tom is in love. That is what ails him.”
“Are you serious?” Mr. Merriwether was frowning fiercely now.
“You'll think so,” retorted Frauenthal, coldly, “when you get my bill.”
“My boy Tom in love?” repeated the czar, blankly. “Yes.”
“With whom?”
“I don't know. I'm a neurologist--not a soothsayer.”
“Well, suppose he is in love--what of it?”
“Nothing--to me.”
“Then what is serious about it?”
“I can't tell you, for its seriousness to you depends on your point
of view toward society at large. There are, of course, the obvious
disquieting circumstances.”
“For instance?”
“He is a fine chap--healthy, bright, honest. What is the reason he has
said nothing to you? Is he ashamed or afraid? If he is ashamed it is
very serious to both of you. If he is afraid--well, then the seriousness
depends on how intelligent a father you have been to him.”
“Don't talk like a damned fool! I've been a good father to him; of
course--”
“Wait! Wait! First tell me why you do what you ask me not to do?” In the
specialist's eyes was a sort of professional curiosity.
“What do you mean?” said E. H. Merriwether, impatiently. It exasperated
him to be puzzled.
“Why do you talk like a damned fool?” said Frauenthal.
Nobody ever talked that way to Mr. E. H. Merriwether, overlord of the
greatest railroad empire in history. He flushed and was about to retort
angrily, but controlled himself in time. The brougham had reached
Frauenthal's office. Mr. Merriwether spoke too calmly--you could feel
the tense restraint:
“Dr. Frauenthal, I've heard a great deal of your wonderful ability.”
He paused. It came hard to him to be ingratiating. This difficulty
is the revenge which nature takes on people who acquire the habit of
'paying money for everything in this world. Such men cannot talk except
with a check-book, and the check-book loses the power of speech before
happiness--and before death.
“What very difficult thing is it you wish me to do for you?” asked
Frauenthal, coldly.
“You are sure Tom is not--” He hesitated.
“Crazy?” prompted the specialist.
“Yes.”
“Yes; I'm sure he is not. Therefore he is saner than you who are a
money-maker.”
Mr. Merriwether let this remark pass. He was anxious to save Tom. This
man was uncannily sharp. He said, “And can't you do something, so that
Tom will not--”
“I am not God!” interrupted Frauenthal.
“Then, what can I do? What do you suggest might be done?”
“As a neurologist?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing.”
“Then, as a man of the world--as one who knows human nature? You see,
this--this--er--sort of thing is not in my line. What shall I do?” It
was a terrible thing for the great Merriwether to confess inefficiency
in anything.
“Pray!”
The little magnate flushed. “Dr. Frauenthal,” he began, with chilling
dignity, “I asked--”
“And I answered. Have your millions deafened you? Pray! Pray to
whatever other god you may have that the lady prove to be neither a
prima donna nor a novelist. A temperamental daughter-in-law is really
worse than you deserve, for all the money they say you have made. There
are check-book gods and stock-ticker gods; and there is also God. I'd
pray to Him if I were you. Good day, sir!”
The footman had opened the door, and the great specialist, without
another look at the railroad man, got out and walked into his house.
“Where to, sir?” asked the footman.
Mr. Merriwether, however, was vexed to think that in relieving his
anxiety over Tom's sanity Frauenthal had replaced it with a dread
question--Why had not Tom told his father about her? The boy must be
either crazy or in love. If he was not crazy, who in blazes was she?
What was she? Why was she? All this angered him. He muttered aloud:
“Hell!”
“Yes, sir--very good, sir,” said the footman, from force of habit. Then
he trembled; but his master had not heard him.' The footman breathed
deeply and said, tremulously, “B-beg p-pardon, sir?”
“Nearest Subway station!” said E. H. Merriwether. .
He was in a hurry to reach his office, not because he had important
business to transact there, but because somehow he always thought best
in his own chair before his own desk in his own office. There he was
an autocrat, and there he could think autocratically and issue commands
that were obeyed. He had much thinking to do--Tom was concerned, his
son Tom; and Tom's future. And it was now clear that T. T. Merriwether's
future was also the future of E. H. Merriwether!
Why had this thing come on him? Talk about your thunderbolts out of
a clear sky--this love-affair was a million times worse! It was
mysterious--and it is well known in Wall Street that a mystery is worse
than nitroglycerine--infinitely more dangerous.
What was this love-affair? How far had it gone? Just where was the
dynamite stored? Who was she? Why did not Tom say something? Why could
not Tom have fallen in love safely? Why could he not have married a good
girl who would help him and help E. H. Merriwether help both by minding
her own business--to wit, a few little male Merriwethers?
It was time Tom became his father's successor-to-be. E. H. Merriwether
had loved to do his own work his own way all his life. It was his
pleasure. But the work suddenly took on an aspect of far
greater importance than the worker. The work was the work of the
Merriwethers--not of one Merriwether; not even of the great E. H., but
of all the Merriwethers, living and to be.
Tom must be trained not only to be the son of a Merriwether, but to be
himself a Merriwether. And therefore E. H. must cease to be a railroad
expert toward Tom; he must become Tom's father, the trainer of a
successor--flesh and blood the same; the fortune the same.
And, as a sense of impending loss always heightens values, E. H.
Merriwether suddenly realized how important to him and to his happiness
Tom was. He loved Tom, who was not only his only son, but the only
Merriwether. That told everything: He loved Tom.