No one suspected that the young architect had killed himself. Garry was
known to have suffered from insomnia, and was supposed to have taken an
overdose of chloral. The doctor so decided, and the doctor's word was
law in such MATTERS, and so there was no coroner's inquest. Then again,
it was also known that he was doing a prosperous business with
several buildings still in course of construction, and that his wife's
stepfather was a prominent banker.
McGowan and his friends were stupefied. One hope was left, and that was
Jack's promise that either he or Garry would be at the trustees' meeting
on Monday night.
Jack had not forgotten. Indeed nothing else filled his mind. There were
still three days in which to work. The shock of his friend's death,
tremendous as it was, had only roused him to a greater need of action.
The funeral was to take place on Sunday, but he had Saturday and Monday
left. What he intended to do for Garry and his career he must now do
for Garry's family and Garry's reputation. The obligation had really
increased, because Garry could no longer fight his battles himself;
nor was there a moment to lose. The slightest spark of suspicion would
kindle a flame of inquiry, and the roar of an investigation would
follow. McGowan had already voiced his own distrust of Garry's methods.
No matter what the cost, this money must be found before Monday night.
The secret of both the suicide and the defalcation was carefully guarded
from MacFarlane, who, with his daughter, went at once to Minott's house,
proffering his services to the stricken widow, but nothing was withheld
from Ruth. The serious financial obligations which Jack was about to
undertake would inevitably affect their two lives; greater, therefore,
than the loyalty he owed to the memory of his dead friend, was the
loyalty which he owed to the woman who was to be his wife, and from whom
he had promised to hide no secrets. Though he felt sure what her answer
would be, his heart gave a great bound of relief when she answered
impulsively, without a thought for herself or their future:
“You are right, dearest. These things make me love you more. You are so
splendid, Jack. And you never disappoint me. It is Garry's poor little
boy who must be protected. Everybody would pity the wife, but nobody
would pity the child. He will always be pointed at when he grows up.
Dear little tot! He lay in my arms so sweet and fresh this morning,
and put his baby hands upon my cheek, and looked so appealingly into my
face. Oh, Jack, we must help him. He has done nothing.”
They were sitting together as she spoke, her head on his shoulder, her
fingers held tight in his strong, brown hand. She could get closer to
him in this position, she always told him: these hands and cheeks were
the poles of a battery between which flowed and flashed the vitality of
two sound bodies, and through which quivered the ecstasy of two souls.
Suddenly the thought of Garry and what he had been, in the days of his
brilliancy, and of what he had done to crush the lives about him came to
her. Could she not find some excuse for him, something which she might
use as her own silent defence of him in the years that were to come?
“Do you think Garry was out of his mind, Jack? He's been so depressed
lately?” she asked, all her sympathy in her voice.
“No, my blessed, I don't think so. Everybody is more or less insane who
succumbs to a crisis. Garry believed absolutely in himself and his luck,
and when the cards went against him he collapsed. And yet he was no
more a criminal at heart than I am. But that is all over now. He has his
punishment, poor boy, and it is awful when you think of it. How he could
bring himself to prove false to his trust is the worst thing about it.
This is a queer world, my darling, in which we live. I never knew much
about it until lately. It is not so at home, or was not when I was a
boy--but here you can take away a man's character, rob him of his
home, corrupt his children. You can break your wife's heart, be cruel,
revengeful; you can lie and be tricky, and no law can touch you--in
fact, you are still a respectable citizen. But if you take a dollar-bill
out of another man's cash drawer, you are sent to jail and branded as a
thief. And it is right--looked at from one standpoint--the protection
of society. It is the absence of all mercy in the enforcement of the law
that angers me.”
Ruth moved her head and nestled the closer. How had she lived all the
years of her life, she thought to herself, without this shoulder to lean
on and this hand to guide her? She made no answer. She had never thought
about these things in that way before, but she would now. It was so
restful and so blissful just to have him lead her, he who was so strong
and self-reliant, and whose vision was so clear, and who never dwelt
upon the little issues. And it was such a relief to reach up her arms
and kiss him and say, “Yes, blessed,” and to feel herself safe in his
hands. She had never been able to do that with her father. He had always
leaned on her when schemes of economies were to be thought out, or
details of their daily lives planned. All this was changed now. She had
found Jack's heart wide open and had slipped inside, his strong will
henceforth to be hers.
Still cuddling close, her head on his shoulder, her heart going out
to him as she thought of the next morning and the task before him, she
talked of their coming move to the mountains, and of the log-cabin
for which Jack had already given orders; of the approaching autumn and
winter and what they would make of it, and of dear daddy's plans and
profits, and of how long they must wait before a larger log-cabin--one
big enough for two--would be theirs for life--any and every topic which
she thought would divert his mind--but Garry's ghost would not down.
“And what are you going to do first, my darling?” she asked at last,
finding that Jack answered only in monosyllables or remained silent
altogether.
“I am going to see Uncle Arthur in the morning,” he answered quickly,
uncovering his brooding thoughts. “It won't do any good, perhaps, but I
will try it. I have never asked him for a cent for myself, and I won't
now. He may help Corinne this time, now that Garry is dead. There
must be some outside money due Garry that he has not been able to
collect--commissions on unfinished work. This can be turned in when it
is due. Then I am going to Uncle Peter, and after that to some of the
people we trade with.”
Breen was standing by the ticker when Jack entered. It was a busy day in
the Street and values were going up by leaps and bounds. The broker was
not in a good humor; many of his customers were short of the market.
He followed Jack into his private office and faced him.
“Funeral's at one o'clock Sunday, I see,” he said in a sharp voice, as
if he resented the incident. “Your aunt and I will be out on the noon
train. She got back this morning, pretty well bunged up. Killed himself,
didn't he?”
“That is not the doctor's opinion, sir, and he was with him when he
died.”
“Well, it looks that way to me. He's busted--and all balled up in the
Street. If you know anybody who will take the lease off Corinne's hands,
let me know. She and the baby are coming to live with us.”
Jack replied that he would make it his business to do so, with pleasure,
and after giving his uncle the details of Garry's death he finally
arrived at the tangled condition of his affairs.
Breen promptly interrupted him.
“Yes, so Corinne told me. She was in here one day last week and wanted
to borrow ten thousand dollars. I told her it didn't grow on trees.
Suppose I had given it to her? Where would it be now. Might as well have
thrown it in the waste-basket. So I shut down on the whole business--had
to.”
Jack waited until his uncle had relieved his mind. The state of the
market had something to do with his merciless point of view; increasing
irritability, due to loss of sleep, and his habits had more. The
outburst over, Jack said in a calm direct voice, watching the effect of
the words as a gunner watches a shell from his gun:
“Will you lend it to me, sir?”
Arthur was pacing his private office, casting about in his mind how to
terminate the interview, when Jack's shot overhauled him. Garry's sudden
death had already led him to waste a few more minutes of his time than
he was accustomed to on a morning like this, unless there was business
in it.
He turned sharply, looked at Jack for an instant, and dropped into the
revolving chair fronting his desk.
Then he said in a tone of undisguised surprise:
“Lend you ten thousand dollars! What for?”
“To clear up some matters of Garry's at Corklesville. The Warehouse
matter has been closed out, so Corinne tells me.”
“Oh, that's it, is it? I thought you wanted it for yourself. Who signs
for it?”
“I do.”
“On what collateral?”
“My word.”
Breen leaned back in his chair. The unsophisticated innocence of this
boy from the country would be amusing if it were not so stupid.
“What are you earning, Jack?” he said at last, with a half-derisive,
half-humorous expression on his face.
“A thousand dollars a year.” Jack had never taken his eyes from his
uncle's face, nor had he moved a muscle of his body.
“And it would take you ten years to pay it if you dumped it all in?”
“Yes.”
“Got anything else to offer?” This came in a less supercilious tone. The
calm, direct manner of the young man had begun to have its effect.
“Nothing but my ore property.”
“That's good for nothing. I made a mistake when I wanted you to put it
in here. Glad you didn't take me up.”
“So am I. My own investigation showed the same thing.”
“And the ore's of poor quality,” continued Breen in a decided tone.
“Very poor quality, what I saw of it,” rejoined Jack.
“Well, we will check that off. MacFarlane got any thing he could turn
in?”
“No--and I wouldn't ask him.”
“And you mean to tell me, Jack, that you are going broke yourself to
help a dead man pay his debts?”
“If you choose to put it that way.”
“Put it that way? Why, what other way is there to put it? You'll excuse
me, Jack--but you always were a fool when your damned idiotic notions
of what is right and wrong got into your head--and you'll never get over
it. You might have had an interest in my business by this time, and be
able to write your check in four figures; and yet here you are cooped up
in a Jersey village, living at a roadside tavern, and getting a thousand
dollars a year. That's what your father did before you; went round
paying everybody's debts; never could teach him anything; died poor,
just as I told him he would.”
Jack had to hold on to his chair to keep his mouth closed. His father's
memory was dangerous ground for any man to tread on--even his father's
brother; but the stake for which he was playing was too great to be
risked by his own anger.
“No, Jack,” Breen continued, gathering up a mass of letters and jamming
them into a pigeon-hole in front of him, as if the whole matter was set
forth in their pages and he was through with it forever. “No--I guess
I'll pass on that ten thousand-dollar loan. I am sorry, but A. B. &
Co, haven't any shekels for that kind of tommy-rot. As to your helping
Minott, what I've got to say to you is just this: let the other fellow
walk--the fellow Garry owes money to--but don't you butt in. They'll
only laugh at you. Now you will have to excuse me--the market's kiting,
and I've got to watch it. Give my love to Ruth. Your aunt and I will be
out on the noon train for the funeral. Good-by.”
It was what he had expected. He would, perhaps, have stood a better
chance if he had read him Peter's encouraging letter of the director's
opinion of his Cumberland property, and he might also have brought him
up standing (and gone away with the check in his pocket) if he had told
him that the money was to save his own wife's daughter and grandchild
from disgrace--but that secret was not his. Only as a last, desperate
resource would he lay that fact bare to a man like Arthur Breen, and
perhaps not even then. John Breen's word was, or ought to be, sacred
enough on which to borrow ten thousand dollars or any other sum. That
meant a mortgage on his life until every cent was paid.
Do not smile, dear reader. He is only learning his first lesson in
modern finance. All young men “raised” as Jack had been--and the Scribe
is one of them--would have been of the same mind at his age. In a great
city, when your tea-kettle starts to leaking, you never borrow a whole
one from your neighbor; you send to the shop at the corner and buy
another. In the country--Jack's country, I mean--miles from a store, you
borrow your neighbor's, who promptly borrows your saucepan in return.
And it was so in larger matters: the old Chippendale desk with its
secret drawer was often the bank--the only one, perhaps, in a week's
journey. It is astonishing in these days to think how many dingy,
tattered or torn bank-notes were fished out of these same receptacles
and handed over to a neighbor with the customary--“With the greatest
pleasure, my dear sir. When you can sell your corn or hogs, or that
mortgage is paid off, you can return it.” A man who was able to lend,
and who still refused to lend, to a friend in his adversity, was a
pariah. He had committed the unpardonable sin. And the last drop of the
best Madeira went the same way and with equal graciousness!
Peter, at Jack's knock, opened the door himself. Isaac Cohen had just
come in to show him a new book, and Peter supposed some one from the
shop below had sent upstairs for him.
“Oh! it's you, my boy!” Peter cried in his hearty way, his arms around
Jack's shoulders as he drew him inside the room. Then something in the
boy's face checked him, bringing to mind the tragedy. “Yes, I read it
all in the papers,” he exclaimed in a sympathetic voice. “Terrible,
isn't it! Poor Minott. How are his wife and the poor little baby--and
dear Ruth. The funeral is to-morrow I see by the papers. Yes, of course
I'm going.” As he spoke he turned his head and scanned Jack closely.
“Are you ill, my boy?” he asked in an anxious tone, leading him to a
seat on the sofa. “You look terribly worn.”
“We all have our troubles, Uncle Peter,” Jack replied with a glance at
Cohen, who had risen from his chair to shake his hand.
“Yes--but not you. Out with it! Isaac doesn't count. Anything you can
tell me you can tell him. What's the matter?--is it Ruth?”
Jack's face cleared. “No, she is lovely, and sent you her dearest love.”
“Then it's your work up in the valley?”
“No--we begin in a month. Everything's ready--or will be.”
“Oh! I see, it's the loss of Minott. Oh, yes, I understand it all now.
Forgive me, Jack. I did not remember how intimate you and he were once.
Yes, it is a dreadful thing to lose a friend. Poor boy!”
“No--it's not that altogether, Uncle Peter.”
He could not tell him. The dear old gentleman was ignorant of everything
regarding Garry and his affairs, except that he was a brilliant young
architect, with a dashing way about him, of whom Morris was proud. This
image he could not and would not destroy. And yet something must be
done to switch Peter from the main subject--at least until Cohen should
leave.
“The fact is I have just had an interview with Uncle Arthur, and he has
rather hurt my feelings,” Jack continued in explanation, a forced smile
on his face. “I wanted to borrow a little money. All I had to offer as
security was my word.”
Peter immediately became interested. Nothing delighted him so much as to
talk over Jack's affairs. Was he not a silent partner in the concern?
“You wanted it, of course, to help out on the new work,” he rejoined.
“Yes, it always takes money in the beginning. And what did the old fox
say?”
Jack smiled meaningly. “He said that what I called 'my word' wasn't
a collateral. Wanted something better. So I've got to hunt for it
somewhere else.”
“And he wouldn't give it to you?” cried Peter indignantly. “No, of
course not! A man's word doesn't count with these pickers and stealers.
Half--three-quarters--of the business of the globe is done on a man's
word. He writes it on the bottom or on the back of a slip of paper small
enough to light a cigar with--but it's only his word that counts.
In these mouse-traps, however, these cracks in the wall, they want
something they can get rid of the moment somebody else says it is not
worth what they loaned on it; or they want a bond with the Government
behind it. Oh, I know them!”
Cohen laughed--a dry laugh--in compliment to Peter's way of putting
it--but there was no ring of humor in it. He had been reading Jack's
mind. There was something behind the forced smile that Peter had
missed--something deeper than the lines of anxiety and the haunted look
in the eyes. This was a different lad from the one with whom he had
spent so pleasant an evening some weeks before. What had caused the
change?
“Don't you abuse them, Mr. Grayson--these pawn-brokers,” he said in his
slow, measured way. “If every man was a Turk we could take his word, but
when they are Jews and Christians and such other unreliable people, of
course they want something for their ducats. It's the same old pound
of flesh. Very respectable firm this, Mr. Arthur Breen & Co.--VERY
respectable people. I used to press off the elder gentleman's coat--he
had only two--one of them I made myself when he first came to New
York--but he has forgotten all about it now,” and the little tailor
purred softly.
“If you had pressed out his morals, Isaac, it would have helped some.”
“They didn't need it. He was a very quiet young man and very polite; not
so fat, or so red or so rich, as he is now. I saw him the other day in
our bank. You see,” and he winked slyly at Jack, “these grand people
must borrow sometimes, like the rest of us; but he never remembers me
any more.” Isaac paused for a moment as if the reminiscence had
recalled some amusing incident. When he continued his face had a broad
smile--“and I must say, too, that he always paid his bills. Once, when
he was afraid he could not pay, he wanted to bring the coat back, but I
wouldn't let him. Oh, yes, a very nice young man, Mr. Arthur Breen,” and
the tailor's plump body shook with suppressed laughter.
“You know, of course, that he is this young man's uncle,” said Peter,
laying his hand affectionately on Jack's shoulder.
“Oh, yes, I know about it. I saw the likeness that first day you came
in,” he continued, nodding to Jack. “It was one of the times when your
sister, the magnificent Miss Grayson was here, Mr. Grayson.” Isaac
always called her so, a merry twinkle in his eye when he said it, but
with a face and voice showing nothing but the deepest respect; at
which Peter would laugh a gentle laugh in apology for his sister's
peculiarities, a dislike of little tailors being one of them--this
little tailor especially.
“And now, Mr. Breen, I hope you will have better luck,” Isaac said,
rising from his chair and holding out his hand.
“But you are not going, Isaac,” protested Peter.
“Yes, this young gentleman, I see, is in a good deal of trouble and I
cannot help him much, so I will go away,” and with a wave of his pudgy
hand he shut the door behind him and trotted downstairs to his shop.
Jack waited until the sound of his retreating footsteps assured the
Jew's permanent departure, then he turned to Peter.
“I did not want to say too much before Mr. Cohen, but Uncle Arthur's
refusal has upset me completely. I could not have believed it of him.
You must help me somehow, Uncle Peter. I don't mean with your own money;
you have not got it to spare--but so I can get it somewhere. I must have
it, and I can't rest until I do get it.”
“Why, my dear boy! Is it so bad as that? I thought you were joking.”
“I tried to joke about it while Mr. Cohen was here, but he saw through
it, I know, from the way he spoke: but this really is a very serious
matter; more serious than anything that ever happened to me.”
Peter walked to the sofa and sat down. Jack's manner and the tone of his
voice showed that a grave calamity had overtaken the boy. He sat looking
into Jack's eyes.
“Go on,” he said, his heart in his mouth.
“I must have ten thousand dollars. How and where can I borrow it?”
Peter started. “Ten thousand dollars!” he repeated in undisguised
surprise. “Whew! Why, Jack, that's a very large sum of money for you to
want. Why, my dear boy, this is--well--well!”
“It is not for me, Uncle Peter--or I would not come to you for it.”
“For whom is it, then?” Peter asked, in a tone that showed how great was
his relief now that Jack was not involved.
“Don't ask me, please.”
Peter was about to speak, but he checked himself. He saw it all now.
The money was for MacFarlane, and the boy did not like to say so. He had
heard something of Henry's financial difficulties caused by the damage
to the “fill.” He thought that this had been made good; he saw now that
he was misinformed.
“When do you want it, Jack?” he resumed. He was willing to help, no
matter who it was for.
“Before Monday night.”
Peter drew out his watch as if to find some relief from its dial, and
slipped it into his pocket again. It was not yet three o'clock and his
bank was still open, but it did not contain ten thousand dollars or
any other sum that he could draw upon. Besides, neither Jack, nor
MacFarlane, nor anybody connected with Jack, had an account at the
Exeter. The discounting of their notes was, therefore, out of the
question.
“To-day is a short business day, Jack, being Saturday,” he said with a
sigh. “If I had known of this before I might have--and yet to tell you
the simple truth, my boy, I don't know a human being in the world who
would lend me that much money, or whom I could ask for it.”
“I thought maybe Mr. Morris might, if you went to him, but I understand
he is out of town,” returned Jack.
“Yes,” answered Peter in a perplexed tone--“yes--Holker has gone to
Chicago and won't be back for a week.” He, too, had thought of Morris
and the instantaneous way in which he would have reached for his
check-book.
“And you must have it by Monday night?” Peter continued, his thoughts
bringing into review one after the other all the moneyed men he knew.
“Well--well--that IS a very short notice. It means Monday to hunt in,
really--to-morrow being Sunday.”
He leaned back and sat in deep thought, Jack watching every expression
that crossed his face. Perhaps Ruth was mixed up in it in some
way. Perhaps their marriage depended upon it--not directly, but
indirectly--making a long postponement inevitable. Perhaps MacFarlane
had some old score to settle. This contracting was precarious business.
Once before he had known Henry to be in just such straits. Again he
consulted his watch.
Then a new and cheering thought struck him. He rose quickly from his
seat on the sofa and crossed the room to get his hat.
“It is a forlorn hope, Jack, but I'll try it. Come back here in an
hour--or stay here and wait.”
“No, I'll keep moving,” replied Jack. “I have thought of some supply
men who know me; our account is considerable; they would lend it to Mr.
MacFarlane, but that's not the way I want it. I'll see them and get back
as soon as I can--perhaps in a couple of hours.”
“Then make it eight o'clock, so as to be sure. I have thought
of something else. Ten thousand dollars,” he kept muttering to
himself--“ten thousand dollars”--as he put on his hat and moved to the
door. There he stopped and faced about--his bushy brows tightening as
a new difficulty confronted him. “Well, but for how long?” That part of
the transaction Jack had forgotten to mention.
“I can't tell; maybe a year--maybe more.”
Peter advanced a step as if to return to the room and give up the whole
business.
“But Jack, my boy, don't you see how impossible a loan of that kind is?”
Jack stood irresolute. In his mad desire to save Garry he had not
considered that phase of the matter.
“Yes--but I've GOT TO HAVE IT,” he cried in a positive tone. “You would
feel just as I do, if you knew the circumstances.”
Peter turned without a word and opened the door leading into the hall.
“Be back here at eight,” was all he said as he shut the door behind him
and clattered down the uncarpeted stairs.
Shortly before the appointed hour Jack again mounted the three flights
of steps to Peter's rooms. He had had a queer experience--queer for him.
The senior member of one supply firm had looked at him sharply, and
had then said with a contemptuous smile, “Well, we are looking for
ten thousand dollars ourselves, and will pay a commission to get it.”
Another had replied that they were short, or would be glad to oblige
him, and as soon as Jack left the office had called to their bookkeeper
to “send MacFarlane his account, and say we have some heavy payments
to meet, and will he oblige us with a check”--adding to his
partner--“Something rotten in Denmark, or that young fellow wouldn't
be looking around for a wad as big as that.” A third merchant heard
him out, and with some feeling in his voice said: “I'm sorry for you,
Breen”--Jack's need of money was excuse enough for the familiarity--“for
Mr. MacFarlane thinks everything of you, he's told me so a dozen
times--and there isn't any finer man living than Henry MacFarlane. But,
just as your friend, let me tell you to stay out of the Street; it's
no place for a young man like you. No--I don't mean any offence. If I
didn't believe in you myself, I wouldn't say it. Take my advice and stay
out.”
And so footsore and heart-sore, his face haggard from hunger, for he
had eaten nothing since breakfast, his purpose misunderstood, his own
character assailed, his pride humiliated, and with courage almost gone,
he strode into Peter's room and threw himself into a chair.
Peter heard his step and entered from his bedroom, where he had finished
dressing for dinner. The old fellow seemed greatly troubled. One glance
at Jack's face told the story of the afternoon.
“You have done nothing, Jack?” he asked in a despondent tone.
“No--have you?”
“Nothing. Portman has gone to his place on Long Island, the others were
out. Whom did you see?”
“Some people we do business with; some of them laughed at me; some gave
me advice; none of them had any money.”
“I expected it. I don't think you are quite aware of what you ask, my
dear boy.”
“Perhaps I am not, but I am beginning to see. It is a new experience for
me. If my father had wanted the money for the same purpose for which I
want this, he would not have had to drive a mile from his house before
he would have had it.”
“Your father lived in a different atmosphere, my boy; in another age,
really. In his environment money meant the education of children, the
comfort of women, and the hospitalities that make up social life.”
“Well, is not that true now, among decent people?” protested Jack, his
mind going back to some homes he remembered.
“No--not generally--not here in New York. Money here means the right to
exist on the planet; we fight for it as we do for our lives. Your own
need of this ten thousand dollars proves it. The men I tried to find
this afternoon have more than they need or ever will need; that's why
I called on them. If I lost it, it wouldn't matter to them, but I would
never hear the last of it all the same,” and a shudder ran through him.
Peter did not tell Jack that had Portman been at home and, out of
friendship for him, had agreed to his request, he would have required
the old fellow's name on a demand note for the amount of the loan; and
that he would willingly have signed it, to relieve the boy's mind and
ward off the calamity that threatened those he loved and those who loved
him--not one cent of which, the Scribe adds in all positiveness, would
the boy have taken had he known that the dear fellow had in any way
pledged himself for its return.
For some minutes Jack sat stretched out in his chair, his body aslant;
Peter still beside him. All the events of the day and night passed in
review before him; Garry's face and heavy breathing; McGowan's visit
and defiance; Corinne's agonized shriek--even the remembrance made him
creep--then Ruth's voice and her pleading look: “The poor little boy.
Jack. He has done no wrong--all his life he must be pointed at.”
He dragged himself to his feet.
“I will go back to Ruth now, Uncle Peter. Thank you for trying. I
know it is a wild goose chase, but I must keep moving. You will be
out to-morrow; we bury poor Garry at one o'clock. I still have all day
Monday. Good-night.”
“Come out and dine with me, my boy--we will go to--”
“No, Ruth is worrying. I will get something to eat when I get home.
Good-night!”