THE FALL OF THE MIGHTY OAK.
The small uniformed myrmidon of the telegraph company stands in front
of the big Western sheriff, and holds the message behind his back.
“Who are you?” he asks immediately.
“The one you’re looking for, I reckon--Colonel Robert Rocket.”
“Say, kin you read, boss?” demands the boy, a sharp-faced chap.
“Well, yes, a little,” returns the other, frowning, for he is impatient
to receive his own.
“Then just cast your eyes on that 'ere enwelope, from a distance like,
an’ tell me if you kin make Bob Rocket or Davy Crockett or any other
firework show out o’ it.”
Plainly he reads the name of Samson Cereal, and the address below.
“The devil! I made a mistake. Boy, follow the nigger. It aint for
me--_yet!_” And the sheriff falls back out of the way, a little
ruffled, but still on deck.
Aleck has heard it all.
He knows that while relieved from one source of anxiety, another has
shown its head. What reception will the great speculator give this
message? True, he must often receive telegrams on many important
subjects, but a man of his firmness would not show this intense anxiety
over a matter unless it was of the utmost moment.
Naturally, therefore, Aleck, being decidedly interested, moves in the
direction of the big operator.
By this time Samson Cereal has caught sight of the colored door-keeper
leading the sagacious messenger boy to his quarter. The latter takes it
all as a matter of course. There can be seen no trace of amazement on
his face, though the decoration of the rooms is superb, and the toilets
of the ladies charming. One of these imps would strut through the
palace of a Czar with the indifference of a princeling to the manner
born.
Now he addresses the lord of the manor, and puts to him questions
regarding his identity that soon establish the fact.
“Put her on that 'ere line--an’ the time.”
Cereal hastily signs his name.
He realizes that a number of people are watching him curiously, and
with a great effort maintains his self possession. His wonderful nerve
serves him well in such an emergency as this. As if the matter is of
little importance he thrusts the message unopened into his pocket and
goes on chatting with the gentleman at his side.
“Well done!” says Aleck in admiration, for his eyes can see that the
other is eager to get at the message.
Presently Craig misses him.
The library is at the back of the house. He has been in it before
during the evening. From the open windows one can look out upon the
lake, and the scene in the misty moonlight is one to conjure up all
manner of romance. Moonlight, the gentle undulations of water, and love
seem to go hand in hand.
To this quarter Aleck bends his steps, wondering if the operator went
thither. The door of the library is open, and, looking in, he sees
Samson Cereal. The operator is alone. He stands under the gas jet, and
has with trembling hands torn the end from the little buff envelope.
He draws out the inclosure, and then, as if unable to look at it, drops
his hand. This weakness is but momentary. With a harsh laugh he finally
raises his hand, and his eyes take in the contents of the message.
Aleck sees him stagger back and clap a hand across his forehead, while
to his ears float the words--how sadly they sound, with that soft music
swelling from the retreat near by:
“Lost--everything lost! After all these years of building up, to be
ruined now. Good God! I shall go mad--mad!”
When a man of his caliber gives way under a severe strain, there is
a terrible danger of his mind going. Aleck Craig once studied for
a doctor, and realizes the desperate nature of the situation. The
operator has apparently forgotten all about the fact that his mansion
is filled with guests. Upon his mind weighs the one terrible thought of
ruin. It glares at him from the walls in malignant letters--everywhere
he sees in letters of fire the awful word that is seared upon his brain.
A proud man Samson Cereal has been. Up to this time he has been very
conservative, and small-sized panics have passed him unharmed. This
summer’s dullness in trade has tempted him to make a break in a
direction whither he has never before trod. By degrees he has gone
in deeper and deeper until everything that he has in the wide world
is risked; and this during a time when, owing to the public alarm,
one cannot raise a thousand dollars on securities worth twenty times
the amount. Instead of diminishing, the old man’s agitation seems
to increase. He staggers as he walks, and then suddenly drops into
a chair, where his chin falls upon his breast. Such an attitude of
dejection Aleck never before looked upon.
He remembers that it is his duty to tell the children of this man that
Samson Cereal may be dying there in his chair. Heaven knows he looks
about as much like a dying man as the human mind could conceive. A
tragedy seems imminent, and yet Aleck feels that the fact should not
be made known if it is possible to keep it a secret. These people have
come here for pleasure--why then should they be disturbed in their
search for it. They have no especial interest in Samson Cereal, beyond
the fact that he is rich and gives entertainments that it is an honor
to attend. The speculator may sink out of sight and his disappearance
create but a slight ripple on the sea in which he swims.
Aleck has some such idea as this in his brain, as he gently closes the
library door, and moves away to find the son and daughter.
Somehow the gay scene has lost all its attractions for him. He can
remember only the agony he has seen depicted upon the face of the man
in the library--the man who wrestles with the pent-up feelings of his
soul, now bursting their barriers and flowing over.
Among the guests he sees Dorothy, and as he looks upon the fair vision
he hates himself because necessity compels him to bring pain to her. If
it were possible he would shield her--that is the thought that flashes
into his mind, and it proves how far the young Canadian is gone in the
realm of love.
Now he catches her eye and makes a quick motion with his hand. She
seems to understand and, leaving her friends, comes up to him. Upon her
face is a look of inquiry--perhaps even a shade of alarm. Of course her
first thought is in connection with John.
He knows curious eyes must be upon her most of the time, and desires to
protect her.
“Miss Dorothy, can you be brave to take a sudden shock without showing
these people that something has happened?” he says quietly.
There leaps into her eyes a swift gleam of alarm. Then she realizes
what he refers to and seeks to avoid--pride comes to the rescue.
“Yes, I believe so, Mr. Craig. Tell me what has happened. It is
something terrible, I know, for your face is so very sober. John----”
“No, it is your father, Miss Dorothy.”
He has with some diplomacy managed to turn her back toward the good
people who fill the room. The music, one of Schumann’s weird creations,
rises and falls in sobs and strange, almost unearthly sounds, until
it seems to Aleck the elements have united in mourning over Samson
Cereal’s downfall.
“Tell me the worst, I can stand it. See, I have more courage than you
give me credit for, but for Heaven’s sake be quick!”
He realizes that there is need of haste, for it must be agony to her,
each second’s delay.
“Your father has received a telegram--it must have contained news of a
distressing character, for I found him in the library, giving way to
his emotion and speaking of being ruined.”
“Oh, this is terrible, Mr. Craig! My poor papa!”
“I understand that you would hardly care to have these people
eye-witnesses of the scene, and so I closed the door. Then I sought you
and looked for John.”
“Let us go to him at once. If there is suffering I should share it with
my poor father.”
“Perhaps,” says Aleck wisely, “we had better look for your brother.”
It pleases him to look upon their relationship in this light. Once he
felt the pangs of jealousy when thinking of this same young miner. Then
again, at the mention of John’s name, a sudden regret flashes into his
mind. He remembers that there is also a sword hanging over him, liable
to descend at any moment--a sword in the hands of Bob Rocket, who waits
for final instructions, unaccountably delayed, before arresting his man.
Surely a cruel fate has conspired to bring about this crisis on the
very night when gayety abounds in the speculator’s mansion.
Dorothy realizes the wisdom of his words. Whatever he may seem to
Aleck, who has the privilege of reading between the lines and looking
behind the scenes, to her John is a bulwark of strength, and in a
crisis like this can be depended on.
As luck will have it the object of their search is near at hand, and
catching his eye Aleck beckons. When John joins them he is told in a
few brief sentences what has occurred.
They approach the library door, but Colonel Rocket, not willing to lose
sight of his man even for a minute, saunters after.
Upon opening the door they discover the old speculator with his head
lying on both arms, which are thrown upon the table. He does not
move, does not apparently hear their entrance. His manner is that
of one entirely given over to despair. It would be difficult indeed
to recognize in this bowed, broken figure the bold speculator whom
previous storms have failed to bend. When the sturdy oak goes before
the tempest, it is with a mighty crash.
Aleck closes the door. He would lock it, but finds no key. Dorothy has
already flown to the side of her father, and drops on her knees.
So long as he lives Craig can never forget the picture thus
presented--the fair girl dressed in her exquisite reception robes, a
princess by right of beauty, kneeling there and fondly stroking the
silvered head of the old wheat king.
“Dear father, what is the matter? Some terrible trouble has come upon
you, some crushing sorrow. I am your child, your Dorothy. Let me share
it with you--confide in me, dear.”
She fondly pats his head while speaking thus, just as though it were a
child she addressed. The speculator looks up. His face is very, very
white, and lines of pain show upon it, but through this he smiles, oh,
so sweetly, as his eyes fall upon the fair face so near his own.
“My dear girl, I thank God I secured an annuity for you some years ago.
That at least is saved. I have received bad news--the worst that could
have happened has arrived, and I am afraid, my dear girl, that your
father is--a ruined man!”