ADMONITION
There was a light in the den as Darley Roberts, having let himself in
with his latch-key, started up the stairs toward his own rooms, and,
although he moved softly, Harry Randall himself faced the newcomer on the
landing, his hand extended.
"I was waiting for you," he announced without preface. "I felt sure you'd
be in to-night sometime." He was smiling a welcome, one unmistakably
genuine. "Delayed, were you?"
"Yes. A wreck out about seventy miles. I just got in on the relief,"
laconically. The accompanying grip, however, was not curt. "You'll read
about it in the morning. Looks comfortable in there," with a nod toward
the inviting den. "Early enough yet for a chat, is it?"
"I was hoping so. That's why I sat up."
"Thanks. I'll be with you in a minute."
Shortly, in lounging-robe and slippers this time, he came tiptoeing down
the hall past the other sleeping-rooms; a big alert shape that seemed
mountainous beside the lesser Randall idly awaiting his return.
"Very well," he introduced characteristically as he dropped into a
convenient seat, "let's hear all about it--everything. I'm listening."
Randall caught the contagion of brevity, as he always did when in the
other's presence. "What would you like to hear about first?" he returned
smilingly. "Have you any choice?"
"Yourself," with a steady look. "Everything's right, I see."
"Yes, everything's right," echoed Randall, "so much so that I'm simply
foolishly happy." He paused meaningly. "And now, since--"
Roberts gestured--merely gestured.
"Aren't you going to permit me even to thank you?" countered Randall.
"I came to hear the news," evenly. Roberts smiled suddenly at the look on
his companion's face. "I understand about that other matter," he
digressed, ambiguously but nevertheless adequately; "let it go at that.
Mrs. Randall, I presume--"
"She hung your portrait, life size, in the parlor downstairs a few days
ago," with direct malice.
Again Roberts gestured; then he looked up. They laughed together and the
tabooed subject by mutual consent passed into oblivion.
"Miss Gleason--Elice--" suggested Roberts.
"Still at her place in the university." Randall busied himself with a
strand of lint on the collar of his smoking-jacket. "Her father's gone
all to pieces, you know, and she seems a bit--tired. Otherwise she's
herself--as always."
"No, I didn't know," said Roberts. "And Armstrong?"
"He's been working steadily for months, and been straight absolutely."
Randall ventured a glance at last. "To-day was his big day; you do know
that. He was in the clouds this evening."
"I should like to have been with you." The tone was non-committal.
"Strange to say I like to see people in that frame of mind. It makes for
optimism. Will his new effort, you think, stand on its own legs?"
"Yes; always providing nothing interferes. I've seen the first half. It's
more than good. It's excellent. You're in it, distinct as life, by the
way."
Roberts lit a cigar and smoked for a minute in silence.
"I'm sorry, sincerely, that I'm there," he said then. He gazed at his
companion steadily, and with a significance Randall never forgot. "I used
to fancy I wasn't afraid of anything. I'm not afraid of most
things,--dynamite or nitro-glycerine or murderous fanatics or physical
pain; but in the last year I've learned there's one thing on earth, one
person, I'm afraid of--deathly afraid. You know who?"
"Yes."
"I predicted once he would make good. I believed it then. Since I've been
alone a good deal and had much time to think, and question. That's why I
am afraid." Roberts paused to smoke, seemingly impassive. "I'd give every
cent I have in the world and start anew to-morrow without breakfast if I
could only know, only know to a certainty that he would keep his grip.
But will he?... I'm afraid!"
Scarcely knowing what he did, Randall lit a cigar in turn and smoked like
a furnace. His tongue attempted to form an assurance, but try as he might
he could not give it voice. Once he had promised not to lie to that man
opposite, ever; and in the depths of his own soul he knew that he, too,
was afraid. At last, in self-confessed rout, he voiced the commonplace.
"It's my turn to ask questions now, I think," he said. "Are you back to
stay?"
Roberts looked up, only half comprehending; he roused himself.
"No. I intend to close out everything. I doubt if I ever stay anywhere
permanently again. I'll keep the house here, though."
"You've decided not to sell it--even to me?"
Roberts paused.
"Yes," he said at last; but he offered no explanation.
Randall waited, hoping for a lead whereby light might come. But none
opened, and the subject dropped.
"I judge the mine's making good," he commented, with the trace of
awkwardness he always felt when approaching the other's personal affairs.
"Will you return soon?"
"Probably not soon." The voice was almost listless. "I put everything in
shape for an indefinite absence before I came away. To answer your
question: It's a wonder, bigger than I ever hoped. It'll still be a great
mine a generation from now."
Randall caught his breath. The big game was yet new to him, and the
volume of wealth suggested was cumulatively overpowering.
"Bigger than you expected!" he echoed. "Then that means--millions!"
Roberts glanced at his companion curiously. Slowly he smiled.
"Yes," he said, "it means millions. I haven't even an idea how many
eventually." The smile left his face, every trace of expression as well.
"I could sell for ten to-day if I wished; but I have no intention of
selling."
Randall sat looking at the other as if hypnotized. He forgot to ask
questions, forgot almost to breathe. To read of gigantic fortunes, the
property of absolute strangers living a thousand or thousands of miles
away, is one thing: to have one personally known, an actual acquaintance
in possession--it held him speechless, staring. The other's familiar,
tolerant laugh aroused him.
"Don't, please," said Roberts. "They've been doing that to me wherever I
show myself and write my name; that is, when they haven't been proving
relationship." He laughed again shortly. "It's wonderful how many
relatives I've discovered of late and friends I've made. Don't do it,
please."
Randall could still color and his face went red.
"I beg your pardon," he apologized, "I--"
"Nor that either," swiftly, almost curtly. "Just be yourself, natural. I
like you that way." He looked at the other openly, with frank intentness
that heralded the unexpected.
"It's possible," he digressed evenly, "that I'll be here some time, but
the chances are I'll only stay a day or so. After to-night we'll probably
not see much of each other, maybe nothing at all, ever. We're rather
different types and our roads lead differently." He smiled to dissipate
the mystification he saw gathering on the other's face. "This is a
preface. What I'm aiming at directly is to say a thing or two that have
been on my mind for some time--in case I don't have the opportunity
again." Once more the smile,--the same smile that had won the confidence
of the other against heavy odds in the beginning of their acquaintance.
"Do you mind if I'm a bit--fatherly to you?"
"No." Swift as thought, as panoramic memory, Harry Randall had remembered
everything; and, without shame, his eyes were moist. "I'd like you to be
so. I understand."
Roberts looked away at the red and green wall opposite.
"It's just this, then; and if you wish me to stop say the word; I get
reports of various things in various ways. It's part of my philosophy to
know of events in advance if I can. I've heard that you are speculating a
bit. Is it true?"
Randall started involuntarily; but the other was not looking.
"How in the world did you know?" he questioned.
"Never mind how I know. I'd tell you if it would do any good; but it
wouldn't. It's true, isn't it?"
"Yes," Randall moistened his lips; "a little."
"Things coming a trifle slow for you, are they? Hard to meet expenses--"
"No; it's not that; but--"
"I understand perfectly." Roberts was still inspecting the pattern of the
paper with minute attention. "As perhaps your best friend, though, don't
do it. If at any time you need money, really need it, remember I am your
friend, and don't hesitate to tell me. But outside of that--" He halted
significantly, waiting; then, sufficient time having elapsed, he looked
at the other again directly.
"Now for the fatherly admonition," he digressed evenly, "or whatever you
please to call it. You're doing well here, and will do better as time
goes by. You're on your own feet, solid. Don't gamble with things as they
are, ever. It's contagious, I know, when a man gets a little surplus, and
looking over the rise of the horizon sees such an infinite field beyond;
but steer clear. Some men can gamble and lose, and forget it and come up
smiling again. Others are fashioned by nature differently. Once down they
stay down; and regret as long as they live. It's a fundamental difference
no power can change. I hope I haven't hurt you unforgivably, Randall?"
Harry Randall glanced up, and his eyes held steady.
"No; and I'll not forget. I promise you that." Involuntarily he started
to rise, his hand half extended, his eyes bright; but he sat down again.
"If I could only thank you right, Roberts," he voiced tensely, "could
only show you in some way that I appreciate--" He halted, the sentence so
consciously inadequate, incomplete,--"If I only could," he repeated
helplessly.
A moment they sat there so, looking at each other, merely looking. Then
at last, with an obvious weariness Randall had never seen him exhibit
before, Roberts slowly arose. Still another moment he stood there,
looking down.
"'Roberts,'" he echoed in a low tone, "'Roberts,' always 'Roberts'! Not
'Darley,' even then." He turned abruptly toward his own rooms, his great
shoulders all but blocking the doorway as he passed out. "Good-night," he
said.