THE BANSEMER CRASH
Twenty long years had passed since David and Frances Cable took
their hasty departure--virtually fleeing from New York City, their
migrations finally ending in that thriving Western city--Denver.
Then, the grime of the engine was on Cable's hands and deep beneath
his skin; the roar of iron and steel and the rush of wind was ever
in his ears; the quest of danger in his eye; but there was love,
pride and a new ambition in his heart. Now, in 1898, David Cable's
hands were white and strong; the grime was gone; the engineer's
cap had given way to the silk tile of the magnate; and the shovel
was a memory.
But his case was not unique in that day and age of pluck and luck.
Many another man had gone from the bottom to the top with the speed
and security of the elevator car in the lofty "sky-scrapers." In
the heartless revolution of a few years, he became the successor
of his Western benefactor. The turn that had been kind to him,
was unkind to his friend and predecessor; the path that led upward
for David Cable, ran the other way for the train-master, who years
afterward died in his greasy overalls and the close-fitting cap of
an engineer. One night Cable read the news of the wreck with all
the joy gone from his heart.
From the cheap, squalid section of town known as "railroad end,"
Cable's rising influence carried him to the well-earned luxury. The
lines of care and toil mellowed in the face of his pretty wife, as
the years rolled by; her comely figure shed the cheap raiment of
"hard, old days," and took on the plumage of prosperity. Trouble,
resentment, and worry disappeared as if by magic, smoothed out by
the satiny touch of comfort's fingers. She went upward much faster
than her husband, for her ambitions were less exacting. She longed
to shine socially--he loathed the thought of it. But Cable was
proud of his wife. He enjoyed the transition that lifted her up with
steady strength to the plane which fitted her best--as he regarded
it. She had stuck by him nobly and uncomplainingly through the
vicissitudes; it delighted him to give her the pleasures.
Frances Cable was proud; but she had not been too proud to stand
beside the man with the greasy overalls and to bend her fine, young
strength to work in unison with his. Together, facing the task,
cheerfully, they had battled and won.
There were days when it was hard to smile; but the next day always
brought with it a fresh sign of hope. The rough, hard, days in
the Far West culminated in his elevation to the office of General
Manager of the great railroad system, whose headquarters and home
were in the city of Chicago. Attaining this high place two years
prior to the opening of this narrative, he was regarded now as one
of the brainiest railroad men and slated to be president of the
road at the next meeting.
Barely past fifty years of age, David Cable was in the prime of
life and usefulness. Age and prosperity had improved him greatly.
The iron grey of his hair, the keen brightness of his face, the
erect, and soldierly carriage of his person made him a striking
figure. His wife, ten years his junior, was one of the most attractive
women in Chicago. Her girlish beauty had refined under the blasts
of adversity; years had not been unkind to her. In a way, she was
the leader of a certain set, but her social ambitions were not
content. There was a higher altitude in fashion's realm. Money,
influence and perseverance were her allies; social despotism her
only adversary.
The tall, beautiful and accomplished daughter of the Cables was
worshipped by her father with all the warmth and ardour of his
soul. Times there were when he looked in wonder upon this arbiter
of not a few manly destinies; and for his life could not help asking
himself how the Creator had given him such a being for a child,
commenting on the fact that she bore resemblance to neither parent.
For years, Mrs. Cable had lived in no little terror of some day
being found out. As the child grew to womanhood, the fears gradually
diminished and a sense of security that would not be disturbed
replaced them. Then, just as she was reaching out for the chief
prizes of her ambition, she came face to face with a man, whose
visage she never had forgotten--Elias Droom! And Frances Cable
looked again into the old and terrifying shadows!
It was late in the afternoon, and she was crossing the sidewalk to
her carriage waiting near Field's, when a man brushed against her.
She was conscious of a strange oppressiveness. Before she turned
to look at him she knew that a pair of staring eyes were upon her
face. Something seemed to have closed relentlessly upon her heart.
One glance was sufficient. The tall, angular form stood almost over
her; the two, wide, blue eyes looked down in feigned surprise; the
never-to-be-forgotten voice greeted her, hoarsely:
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Cable! And how is the baby?"
"The baby!" she faltered. Struggle against it as she would, a sort
of fascination drew her gaze toward the remarkable face of the old
clerk. "Why--why--she's very well, thank you," she finally stammered.
Her face was as white as a ghost; with a shudder she started to
pass him. Droom, blocked the way.
"She was such a pretty little thing, I remember;" and then,
insinuatingly: "Where is her father, now?"
"He--Mr. Cable," answered Mrs. Cable, feeling very much as a bird
feels when it is charmed by a snake, "why, he's at home, of course."
"Indeed!" was all that Elias Droom said; for she had fled to escape
the grin that writhed in and out among the wrinkles of his face.
As her carriage struggled through crowded Washington Street,
an irresistible something compelled Frances Cable to glance back.
Droom stood on the curb, his eyes following her almost hungrily.
Half an hour later, when she reached home, she was in a state of
collapse. Although there was no physical proof of the fact, she
was positive that Elias Droom had followed her to the very doorstep.
In suspense and dread, she waited for days before there was a
second manifestation of Droom. There was rarely a day when she did
not expect her husband to stand before her and ask her to explain
the story that had been carried to him by a demon in the form of
man.
But Droom did not go to David Cable. He went to James Bansemer with
the news.
James Bansemer's law and loan offices were not far from the river
and, it is sufficient to say, not much farther from State Street.
He who knows Chicago well cannot miss the location more than three
blocks, either way, if he takes City Hall as a focal point. The
office building in which they were located is not a pretentious
structure, but its tenants were then and still are regarded as
desirable. It may be well to announce that Bansemer, on reaching
Chicago, was clever enough to turn over a new leaf and begin work
on a clear, white page, but it is scarcely necessary to add that
the black, besmirched lines on the opposite side of the sheet could
be traced through every entry that went down on the fresh white
surface. Bansemer was just as nefarious in his transactions, but
he was a thousandfold more cautious. Droom sarcastically reminded
him that he had a reputation to protect, in his new field and,
besides, as his son was "going in society" through the influence of
a coterie of Yale men, it would be worse than criminal to deteriorate.
Bansemer loathed Droom, but he also feared him. He was the only living
creature that inspired fear in the heart of this bold schemer. It
is true that he feared the effect an exposure might have on the
mind of his stalwart son, the boy with his mother's eyes; but he
had succeeded so well in blinding the youth in the years gone by,
that the prospects of discovery now seemed too remote for concern.
The erstwhile New York "shark" was now an eel, wily and elusive,
but he was an eel with a shark's teeth and a shark's voraciousness.
He had grown old in the study of this particular branch of natural
history. Bansemer was fifty-five years old in this year of 1898.
He was thinner than in the old New York days, but the bull-like
vigour had given way to the wiry strength of the leopard. The once
black hair was almost white, and grew low and thick on his forehead.
Immaculately dressed, ever straight and aggressive in carriage,
he soon became a figure of whom all eyes took notice, even in the
most crowded of Chicago thoroughfares.
Graydon Bansemer, on leaving Yale with a diploma and some of
the honours of his class, urged his father to take him into his
office, and ultimately to make him a partner in the business. James
Bansemer never forgot the malicious grin that crossed the face of
Elias Droom when the young fellow made the proposition not more
than a fortnight before the Bansemer establishment picked itself
up and hastily deserted New York. That grin spoke plainer than all
the words in language. Take him into the office? Make this honest,
grey-eyed boy a partner? It was no wonder that Droom grinned and
it is no wonder that he forgot to cover his mouth with his huge
hand, as was his custom.
The proposition, while sincere and earnest, was too impossible
for words. For once in his life, James Bansemer was at a loss for
subterfuge. He stammered, flushed and writhed in the effort to
show the young man that the step would be unprofitable, and he was
sorely conscious that he had not convinced the eager applicant.
He even urged him to abandon the thought of becoming a lawyer, and
was ably seconded by Elias Droom, whose opinion of the law, as he
had come to know it, was far from flattering.
Just at this time Bansemer was engaged in the most daring as well
as the most prodigious "deal" of his long career. With luck, it was
bound to enrich him to the extent of $50,000. The plans had been
so well prepared and the execution had been so faultless that there
seemed to be no possibility of failure. To take his fair-minded
son--with the mother's eyes--into the game would be suicidal. The
young fellow would turn from him forever. Bansemer never went so
far as to wonder whence came the honest blood in the boy's veins,
nor to speculate on the origin of the unquestioned integrity. He
had but to recall the woman who bore him, the woman whose love was
the only good thing he ever knew, the wife he had worshipped while
he sinned.
For years and years he had plied his unwholesome trade in reputations,
sometimes evading exposure by the narrowest of margins, and he had
come to believe that he was secure for all time to come. But it
was the "big job" that brought disaster. Just when it looked as
though success was assured, the crash came. He barely had time to
cover his tracks, throw the figurative pepper into the eyes of his
enemies, and get away from the scene of danger. But, he had been
clever and resourceful enough to avoid the penalty that looked
inevitable and came off with colours trailing but uncaptured.
Perhaps no other man could have escaped; but James Bansemer was
cleverest when in a corner. He backed away, held them at bay until
he could recover his breath, and then defied them to their teeth.
Despite their proof, he baffled them, and virtue was not its own
reward--at least in this instance.
In leaving New York, he hoped that Ellas Droom--who knew too much--might
refuse to go into the new territory with him, but the gaunt, old
clerk took an unnatural and malevolent delight in clinging to his
employer. He declined to give up his place in the office, and,
although he hated James Bansemer, he came like an accusing shadow
into the new offices near the Chicago River, and there he toiled,
grinned and scowled with the same old faithfulness.