The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAgainst the TideThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Against the TideAuthor: H. Bedford-JonesRelease date: January 29, 2022 [eBook #67269]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1924Credits: Al Haines*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AGAINST THE TIDE ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Against the TideAuthor: H. Bedford-JonesRelease date: January 29, 2022 [eBook #67269]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1924Credits: Al Haines
Title: Against the Tide
Author: H. Bedford-Jones
Author: H. Bedford-Jones
Release date: January 29, 2022 [eBook #67269]Most recently updated: October 18, 2024
Language: English
Original publication: United States: Dodd, Mead and Company, 1924
Credits: Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AGAINST THE TIDE ***
BY
JOHN WYCLIFFE(Henry Bedford-Jones)
NEW YORKDODD, MEAD AND COMPANY1924
COPYRIGHT, 1924,BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.VAIL-BALLOU PRESS, INC.BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK
CONTENTS
BOOK I
"The Hidden Things of Dishonesty"
BOOK II
"He Who Did Eat of My Bread"
BOOK III
"A Man's Heart Deviseth His Way"
AGAINST THE TIDE
The old-fashioned Deming mansion, for the hundredth time in its sedate existence, was filled with a gayety which offset even the menacing weather.
Although noon was close at hand, the morning was deeply gloomy and ominous. Thunder clouds of late summer brooded over the Ohio, and rain, already sweeping across the wide crescent-bend of the river, was threatening to burst upon Evansville. Yet it was not because of these clouds that the old house was ablaze with light from cellar to attic.
From the twelve-foot ceilings of the huge rooms hung electric clusters, whose glare was softened yet quickened by tinkling prisms and pendants of crystal. Along the walls twinkled sconces and candelabra; this richer glow brought out the scarlet coats of tapestried huntsmen, pursuing stags through indefinite forests of Gobelin weave. Everywhere was light and sound and laughter.
A babel of tongues filled the rooms—crisply concise northern speech, mingled with the softer slur of southern accents. A listener might gather that this house was symbolic of Evansville itself, bordering both north and south, drinking of its best from either section; an Indiana city, yet of infinite variety, proudly exclusive, living more in past than present, yet cordial and open-hearthed.
At noon, in this house, Dorothy Deming was to be married to Reese Armstrong. The wedding was yet some little distance away. Macgowan, who had been dressing for his part of best man and who was a house guest, crossed the upstairs hall toward the stairway, just as Dorothy herself appeared from a room which was aflutter with excited feminine voices. With the license of his age and position, he led her to the window-nook and began to speak of Armstrong. Dorothy, oblivious of the confusion around, yielded to the detention and listened eagerly.
Why not? When Lawrence Macgowan spoke, few men but would have listened; not to mention a bride who was chatting with the groom's most intimate and trusted friend, and hearing wondrous things about the man whom she was soon to call her husband.
Macgowan was impressive. More impressive than J. Fortescue Deming, in whose features the Deming Food Products Company had seared deep lines; more impressive than Deming's business directors and social friends here gathered; more impressive by far than young Armstrong, whose financial genius was making its mark so rapidly.
Despite the gray at his temples, Lawrence Macgowan possessed a charm of personality, a steely keenness of intellect, a direct force of character, which dominated all who came in contact with him. Being quite used to making this impression, he made it the more readily. Men said of Macgowan that he disdained politics, had refused a supreme court appointment, and preferred corporation law to marriage as a means of advancement. True,—perhaps. Among the doctors of the law, among those upright ones who lived rigorously by legal ethics and by ethical illegality, Macgowan moved as a very Gamaliel, honored in the Sanhedrim and respected by all those whose fortunes his brain had made.
Men said, too, that some day he would set that brain to making his own fortune.
"Then," Dorothy was inquiring, "you and Reese are looking this very minute for some new business to take hold of? And you haven't found one?"
Macgowan evaded, smilingly. His whole person seemed to radiate that smile as some rich crystal radiates and warms the sunlight, and when he thus smiled all the strong lines of his face were softened; his level gaze lost its almost harsh intensity and became winning, genial, intimate.
"We're not looking, exactly," he said. "You see, we're more sought after than seeking—though I should not include myself. Reese is the whole thing. It's his genius that is the very breath of life in Consolidated. Do you know that he's put nearly sixteen thousand investors on our books by his sheer selling ability? He has actually sold himself to them. All small ones, people who can invest only a few hundred dollars each year. That is more than an accomplishment; it is a triumph!"
The girl's cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes shone like stars.
"But it's your help, your faith and backing, which made such big things possible for him. To think that he's been in New York only a year or two! To think where he will be after ten years—" Dorothy broke off, caught her breath sharply, and laughed at her own enthusiasm. "Oh, I'm intoxicated with the very thought of what he's accomplished and what he will accomplish! Now tell me about the companies you-all handle. Do you buy them and then sell them later for more money?"
Macgowan shook his head. "No. A manufacturing concern, let us say, is poorly managed yet essentially sound. We buy it. We reorganize it. Consolidated Securities owns it and continues to own it. A minority of the stock is sold to our investors, to the people who own Consolidated stock. It is their privilege to buy stock in this subsidiary company—"
"The preferred stock?" cut in Dorothy. Macgowan chuckled at her sapient air.
"Yes. Two shares and no more to each investor, but with these two shares goes one share of common at a nominal valuation. Suppose we start or reorganize two or three such companies in the course of a year—and we hope to do better than that—the chances are very good for our investors. Consolidated sells the stock, owns the subsidiary company, runs it! Thus, Consolidated must make sure that the company will not fail but succeed. The investor shares the profit with Consolidated; also, he shares Consolidated's profit from the whole group of companies. You see the idea?"
Dorothy nodded quickly, then was checked by Macgowan's air.
"There's just one thing." His tone was hesitant, embarrassed. Her eyes leaped to his face; his voice seemed to bring a swift apprehension into her mind.
"Yes?" she urged him with an eager word.
"There is one thing—" Macgowan was unaccountably at a loss for speech; to any who knew him well, an astounding thing. "You understand, the success of Reese Armstrong means everything to me; I may call myself his closest friend, at least in New York. And I know, my dear, that with you at his elbow, with your faith and help behind him, he is invincible."
Suspense flashed into the girl's eyes. This prelude, this slightly frowning air of embarrassment, hinted at some portentous secret.
"Yes?" she prompted again.
The lawyer regarded her a long moment, his eyes gravely steady.
"Well, there is one thing I want to say to you; that's why I dragged you away for a few moments. Yet I don't want to offend you, my dear."
"You won't—it's a promise! What is it?"
"One thing, for his happiness and yours. He is a wizard at finance; success has not flung him off balance, for his one thought has ever been of work. Now, my dear Dorothy, don't let him drink too deeply of this wine of wizardry! No man can serve two masters. Business takes its toll of souls, I can assure you; it hardens the spirit, until nothing is left sacred before its spell. A man will rob his best friend in the name of business. He will take what he can grasp, and call it finance. You must see to it that Reese is not too entirely absorbed in his work—that he is not dominated by the nimble dollar."
For a moment the girl met Macgowan's steady gaze, probing for the meaning underneath his words. In her eyes rose a question, a quick protest, an argument.
Then, before she could respond, came a breathless outcry, a swish of skirts, and two bridesmaids seized upon her.
"Dorothy, you shameless thing! These brides—they all need a guardian! You've driven us perfectlywild! Don't you know that we've been looking everywhere for you? It's time you were dressed—your mother's waiting—"
Dorothy was hustled away in peremptory fashion.
Macgowan, smiling a little to himself, sauntered away and downstairs. As he entered the great drawing-room he was instantly seized upon. New guests were each moment arriving and Macgowan, who was to be best man, was the lion of the hour. Armstrong had not yet summoned him for moral support, and he was momentarily free.
This home wedding in its very informality held a formal dignity which was novel to the New Yorker, and which he found delightful. Many of those present were out-of-town house guests, and all were old friends of the bride; Armstrong had invited only his best man. Thus the affair had a strong sense of family intimacy.
Macgowan was quick to feel any psychic and underlying influence. Behind all this glitter he perceived a curious restraint, a pride, a singular cool dignity. Through the babel of voices, underneath the laughing faces, he was vaguely aware of this thing. It was as though many of these people, guests in this house, shared some secret which they were trying to banish from memory or thought.
Lawrence Macgowan knew exactly what this hidden thing was.
He was no untutored denizen of the metropolis who viewed the country at large only through the uncertain eyes of the press. He even had direct connections with Evansville; across the room he saw his cousin, Ried Williams, a director and treasurer of the Deming company. The relationship was not, however, known to many; even Armstrong was unaware of it. Macgowan made his way to the side of Williams and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Well, Ried? How are you?"
"Hello, Lawrence!" The thin, sallow features of Williams suddenly radiated delight. "Here, I want you to meet Pete Slosson, our assistant general manager. Pete, this is Lawrence Macgowan; a man to whom the law is a servitor and shield, the Constitution an act of providence, and state legislatures mere soda-water bubbles—"
Laughing, Macgowan shook hands with Pete Slosson. A young man, this, of singularly clear-cut and intelligent features; yet the eyes were a bit sullen, the lips a trifle full. The entire face displayed a nervous energy not wholly natural. The man drank.
"Everything Lawrence touches," continued Williams warmly, "and every one in touch with him, succeeds! He simply never makes a failure of anything."
"Then I'll make a touch," Slosson grinned, "because I'm going to be broke one of these days."
Macgowan chuckled. "Any time you like," he returned. "But remember that the golden touch of Midas went against him at the last!"
One watching these three men closely might have fancied that beneath their light words lay some deeper significance.
At this moment the negro butler approached. He deftly bore a huge tray, upon which crowded tall silver cups, crowned with the rich green of new mint and steaming frostily from their iced contents.
"Compliments of the bride, gentlemen!" he addressed them. "If you-all is prohibition, dishyer in de centuh is gwineteed not to obstruct yo' feelin's or beliefs—"
"Not for us, Uncle Neb!" Slosson laughed loudly, as he extended one of the juleps to Macgowan. "Here's a treat for you, effete easterner! Uncle Neb's cocktails are famous from here to Nashville, but his juleps are symphonic memories of the good old days. Take a long whiff of the mint first, mind; there's only one way to drink a julep. That right, Uncle Neb?"
"Dat sho' is de truth, Mistah Slosson!" The old negro was beaming. "Yas, suh. Folks sho' do prove dey quality on de julep. Ain't dat de truth, Mistah Slosson? M-mm! And Mistah Deming he done growed dat mint his own self, too—ain't nobody knows mint like he do!"
Macgowan sniffed deeply of the raw fragrance, and raised his goblet.
"Gentlemen, I give you the health of the bride!"
At these words, an almost imperceptible contraction occurred in the features of Slosson. Faint as was this movement of the facial muscles, instantly as it vanished, Macgowan observed it.
After this, he took a deep and lively interest in Pete Slosson; and Slosson, flattered, talked freely enough. Any man would have been flattered to hold the absorbed attention of Macgowan.
"You're wasting your talents here, Slosson," said Macgowan at last. His tone was abrupt and incisive, and confidential in the extreme. "You ought to have a year or two in Chicago or Indianapolis, handling bigger things, then come on to New York. There's no advancement for a man like you in this town."
Slosson listened with sulky eyes.
"All very well," he returned. "But I'm a director, and assistant general manager of Food Products—which is a big thing here. If I went to Indianapolis, where'd I be? I've no pull up there."
Macgowan's thin lips curved slightly at this.
"Then you don't care to handle bigger things?"
"Of course I do!" snapped Slosson. "Will you give me a chance at 'em?"
"Yes," said Macgowan coolly. "Yes. Not now, though. Later on—when some things that are in the air have worked around right."
"Good! Then count on me. Between the two of us, Food Products is going to pieces soon."
Macgowan merely nodded indifferently. "Why?" he asked.
Slosson shrugged.
"How the devil should I know? Business depression, of course. We have a good line and it sells, but luck's against us. There's Deming now. Good lord! Look at his face!"
The two men turned. Their host had halted in the doorway and was signing the book of a messenger. A telegram was in his hand.
Macgowan, not at all astonished by the information just confided to him, searched the face of Deming. He read there confirmation of Slosson's words. Indubitably, the man was keenly worried. That elderly, handsome face was deeply lined with care; a far and deep-hidden weakness, a frightened panic, was about the eyes. As he stood there in the doorway, Deming tore open the envelope and glanced at the telegram which unfolded in his hand.
Even by the artificial light, Macgowan saw the deathly pallor that leaped into the man's face; he saw the fingers tremble, saw the frightful despair that sprang to the eyes. For one instant Deming lifted his head, stared blankly around, then turned and was gone. After him hurried Slosson, concerned and anxious.
Macgowan felt a touch at his elbow. He turned to find Ried Williams, who had perceived nothing of this happening in the doorway. His rather crafty eyes met the glance of Macgowan with a saturnine air.
"What d'you think of Slosson, Lawrence?"
"Good man." Macgowan glanced at his watch. "Well, I must be off to find Armstrong—"
"You don't know about Slosson, then?"
Macgowan regarded his cousin steadily.
"Disappointed rival; he'd always counted on marrying Dorothy. I've been afraid he'd take a drop too much and make a scene, but he has a good head. And see here, Lawrence! How long have I known you?"
"Longer than I like to think about," and Macgowan chuckled in his hearty manner.
"Yes." Williams looked at him appraisingly, keenly. "Don't wriggle with me, Lawrence. You have devilish deep meanings to some things you say. When you said Slosson was a good man, you meant something. What's in the air?"
Macgowan frowned slightly. "Nothing, except wedding bells."
"Oh!" An ironic smile lighted the face of Williams. "Wriggling, are you? All right. You had a special reason for wanting to meet Slosson, and now you say he's a good man. That's enough to show me a few things—since I know you. Just how much do you know? Know that Food Products is going bust inside of six weeks or six days? I want to get from under, so give me the benefit of your advice."
Macgowan regarded his cousin with a frowning air.
"Ried, if I had your brains I'd be in Wall Street—or the penitentiary," he said slowly and smoothly, without offense in the words. "You and Slosson should both be in Indianapolis. Should be in the investment business there, brokerage, quite on your own hook, of course."
"So!" exclaimed Williams quietly. "What's in your mind, then?"
"Nothing save paternal advice."
"Have you enough confidence in our ability to underwrite the business?"
"Strictly as a matter between cousins, yes! If done quietly."
The two men looked at each other in silence, for a long moment. It was impossible to conceive what passed between them, what unspoken comprehension, what tacit agreement, lay in their minds. Williams was furtively admiring, Macgowan was blandly imperturbable. Yet one gathered that, no matter what comprehension might exist between these two men, Macgowan alone held the complete key to it.
Their talk was swiftly interrupted.
The noisy groups had become silenced and wondering, an ominous whisper passed through the huge rooms, tongues were stilled and hushed, only to rise again in subdued conjecture and low talk. Obviously, something very untoward had happened somewhere.
To Macgowan and Williams, as they stood together, Pete Slosson came hurriedly pushing his way. From his face was stripped the mask of polite amiability; that face was dark with passion, anger and fright fought for possession of the eyes, the mouth was clenched and desperate.
"Macgowan, Armstrong wants you in Deming's library right away," he said in a low tone. "You too, Ried! There's the devil to pay. The wedding's postponed for an hour."
Slosson shoved on into the throng, seeking some one else. Macgowan went to the doorway with Williams. He laid his hand on the other's arm.
"My dear Ried," he said quietly, "you predicted that something would happen within six weeks or six days. Decidedly, you must overcome this habit of making inaccurate statements!"
"Eh?" Williams looked bewildered. "You—what d'you mean?"
"You should have said, within six minutes." Macgowan chuckled again, then halted. "Here! Where's the library? You're not going upstairs!"
"It's up there," answered the other curtly, leading the way.
A hum of suppressed voices followed and surrounded the two men as they mounted to the upper floor. At this moment, one of the upper hall doors opened, and the white-clad figure of Dorothy burst out into the hall with excited words.
"I must find father at once!" she was exclaiming. "A whole hour—why, it's terrible! I don't care what the reason is—oh, Mr. Macgowan! Where is Reese? Where's father?"
Macgowan looked down into the flushed and beautiful face of the girl; he gently and reassuringly patted the hand that had caught at his arm.
"Your father has had some bad news," he said quietly.
"Bad news!" The eyes of Dorothy widened on his. "But how—"
"A business matter." Macgowan glanced at the others crowding around, then with a quiet gesture he led Dorothy to that same window-nook where they had been talking a few moments previously. A subdued exultation was in his eyes.
"Now, my dear girl, accept the matter calmly," he said. "Do not interfere; there is an important meeting in your father's library. Let Reese have his way, I beg of you."
Dorothy caught her breath.
"It is Reese who has postponed the wedding?" she said.
"For business that could not wait." Macgowan nodded, and lowered his voice. "You recall what I warned you about? Well, this shows. Reese is going to take your father's business away from him, for his own sake. It has to be done. Consolidated will profit by it, of course. Don't mention this to any one, even to your mother. It's been all cut and dried for some time. I'm sorry. Don't blame Reese; cure him."
He turned and went his way after Williams.
Dorothy stood motionless, as though his words had stricken something far inside of her. Her mother appeared, her bridesmaids crowded about with wondering exclamations, questions, perturbed faces. A babel of voices surrounded them.
"It's nothing," said Dorothy, calmly enough, though her voice was strained. "A little matter of business that came up unexpectedly. Father and Reese have had to hold a meeting. Mother, I think I'll sit down for a minute—"
She passed through them, went to her own room, closed the door. Then she sank down on the bed, a sudden fierce anger filling her blue eyes.
"Why did he say that?" she murmured. "A lie—a lie! And the venom in his eyes—oh, I can't forget his eyes! He hates me because I've come between him and Reese. He hates me, and now he tells me this awful lie, tries to make trouble between us! He can't. I'll not believe him. I'll pay no attention to him—"
Her emotion culminated in a burst of tears. It never really occurred to her for a moment that the lie might have held any grain of truth.
Upon the issue of this meeting in the library of Fortescue Deming there directly depended larger things than any of the men present might guess. "Food Products," otherwise the Deming Food Products Company, was an old and honorable concern with large mills which turned out all manner of delectables from raw flour to breakfast foods. The men who directed the destinies of this company now sat about the library table of their president, wondering what the devil Reese Armstrong and his lawyer were doing here.
Armstrong actually had a better comprehension of the company and its situation than anybody could have dreamed. The summons from Deming had caught him while dressing, and he was in his shirt sleeves; but his manner lacked the nervous anxiety of the others about him. They feared the blow that was about to fall, and dreaded its consequences. Armstrong could have told them exactly what was going to happen to Food Products and to them, within the next few moments. He did not know, however, just what the result of all this was going to be to himself.
Lawrence Macgowan alone might have told him that.
It was now more than a year since Reese Armstrong turned up in New York, quite unknown to fame. He was armed with some money, which he had made at various points between Manitoba and Evansville, and a lawyer's education; with a firm conviction in his own ability; and with a project for extracting the hoard from the well-known but mythical sock of the small investor. He had more than a project to this end; he had a positive genius, which he was quite willing to demonstrate.
Despite his age, which was still short of thirty, this genius found him a welcome. It was a cautious welcome; still, those who dream eternally of extracting that hoard from that sock would welcome Mephisto himself if he were to present himself for the purpose.
Armstrong was no Mephisto. He possessed qualities which did not appear on the surface. To the metropolitan eye, he was a green lawyer from the verdant West, who might possibly get somewhere. Yet, in reality, he had behind him the culminative and driving power of struggle.
He had worked himself through law school by the unusual method of playing the Italian harp, and playing it well. Farther back were two generations of Baptist circuit-riders, whose chief heritage to him was a stern and rigid standard of moral values, so far as his personal conduct was concerned, and an old-fashioned belief in legal ethics. Now, to play the harp one must be an idealist. To cherish a moral code, entails a sense of personal responsibility. These two qualities are rarely combined in one person; when the combination does appear, that person is either famous or infamous—he is never mediocre.
Besides all this, Armstrong had knocked about through Western Canada, thereby attaining to an extensive knowledge of his fellow man which did not appear in his ruddy and ingenuous countenance. He was blond and vigorous, with an eye whose peculiar steely acuity could be very disconcerting. A laugh came often to his lips, a smile rarely. His air was one of poise and confidence, of almost challenging assurance, and he had a knack of imparting this assurance to those who came into touch with him.
It is well known that the aforesaid metropolitan eye accepts a man at face value. This face value of Reese Armstrong was countersigned by a clean, alert, inspiring brain; it was untouched by the corroding fingers of greed or self-indulgence or crafty brooding. One instinctively perceived that this man held his given word above any minted pledge.
Armstrong had sought a letter of introduction to the best corporation lawyer in New York, and this letter brought him to Lawrence Macgowan.
After listening to all that Armstrong had to say, Macgowan took action. He put up Reese Armstrong at the Lawyers' Club, obtained a hearing from certain men of his acquaintance—and Consolidated Securities was incorporated. Armstrong held no office but retained a controlling interest. Macgowan became a director and remained as counsel. The other men, of whom Judge Holcomb and Findlater were the most prominent, became directors without salary, being paid outright in stock for their support. The first subsidiary was the Armstrong Company, purely a stock-selling concern.
Not blinded by this success, Armstrong knew that he was only on trial. None of these men had great confidence in his scheme. They were willing to take a chance, hoping that some day would appear Fortunatus, to loose for them the string that bound the sock of the small investor. Armstrong, to prove that he was the man, went to work.
About himself Armstrong gathered men devoted to him, an organization covering New York and adjacent cities. His chief helper was Jimmy Wren—impulsive, ardent, imaginative; not a half-way man. Somehow, into all these men Armstrong injected his own personality; or, perhaps, he picked them with extraordinary skill. In any event, he accomplished a miracle. Through them he reached out and touched the small investor, became acquainted with him, won his confidence, induced him to become part owner of Consolidated.
From its inception the struggle was aureated with success. Two small manufacturing concerns were taken over, reorganized, placed on a paying basis. Here again Armstrong showed his value as a judge of men. Consolidated Securities became a material fact, and prospered, and was ready to reach out anew.
At the end of the year's work, Armstrong went to Evansville to claim his bride.
He had met Dorothy Deming in New York, renewing an old acquaintance begun two years before in Evansville, and now upleaped between them a swift and spontaneous mutual knowledge that they were one. Almost from the first there was a complete comprehension, a deep and terrible kinship of spirit which, had there been barriers, would have borne them down. But there were no barriers to this love, save Armstrong's ambition for what he deemed final success; and this success came swiftly—all too swiftly, some said.
And now Armstrong, shirt-sleeved, sat at the library table of J. Fortescue Deming.
As he glanced at the faces around him, Armstrong awaited quietly the coming event. He knew as well as they—perhaps better—what to expect, but he had not imagined that it would come just yet, above all at this day and hour. Yet during the past few months he had seen it approach, with an inevitable certainty, nor could he hinder it. One does not, unfortunately, extend warnings of failure to a prospective father-in-law; not, at least, with any great success. Armstrong had refused to endanger his state of blessedness by attempting to pry open the lids of a blind man.
As he looked around, Armstrong could not repress, did not try to repress, the cold gleam in his eye. For the broken Deming who stood beside him fingering a telegram, he could feel pity; the others deserved no such feeling. They were either spoilers, or complacently inefficient fools, these men. All seven of them had together wrecked the Deming Food Products Company, though their work in this direction had not been by intent, but through folly, selfish calculation, through lack of all vision beyond self-interest. Deming, who had built up the old company, had lost his once strong grip on things, and his vision had overpowered his common sense. Although he could not realize it, he was not without his share of blame for this debacle.
And while Armstrong thus looked with unveiled scorn from man to man about the table, Lawrence Macgowan, by himself in one corner of the library, watched only Armstrong. If his gaze held any expression, it was hidden.
"Gentlemen," began Deming, with shaking voice, "I have hurriedly called you here to receive bad news. To get this message at such a moment is more than a blow to me; it is a humiliation. Yet I must face it."
He paused, his gaze sweeping the circle of faces. In them he read not the slightest hint of fortitude or sympathy; only weakness, fright, panicky comprehension. A single strong, calm pair of eyes might have bucked him up in this moment. He found none, save Armstrong's.
"This telegram," he blurted desperately, "is from the Northwestern Millers Corporation. Unless they receive ten thousand dollars to apply on our account before noon to-morrow, their attorneys are instructed to apply for a receiver and—and—" He paused, then went on. "My friends, I need not say that unless we wire this money, the Deming Company is a thing of the past. I ask your help."
Deming somehow fumbled himself into a chair, become an old man in ten minutes.
About the table reigned silence. Men looked one at another and dared not speak. Ried Williams, with a slight shrug, lighted a cigarette; his sallow features were very cynical. Slosson stared at Deming, at Armstrong, with surly anger in his eyes. One would have said that he hated this man for whom he worked, this man whose daughter he had failed to win, and the other man in shirt-sleeves who had won her.
Armstrong read that gaze, and smiled at the fright, the anger, the bitter venom, of it. Never did it enter his head that this Slosson was to be feared, or even remembered. Already his mind was turning upon other matters.
"Will nobody—" Deming looked up. The words faltered on his tongue, and died away. One or two of his directors shuffled uneasy feet, cleared their throats. No one replied.
Then Armstrong, pushing back his chair, rose to his feet.
A flash of vigor shook Deming. The man leaped up, held out his hand in restraint, and found passionate, eager words of protest.
"Not you, Reese!" His voice came like the snapping of a taut cord. "Not you! I did not summon you here for—to ask your charity! Now that you know the worst, I release you on Dorothy's behalf. You shall not marry the daughter of a pauper, a man who has not a cent, a man facing bankruptcy—"
"Be quiet, please," said Armstrong. Under his calm gaze, Deming's voice died again, and Deming stared at him, wondering, agonized, breathing hard.
"Don't intrude personalities into this; you cannot realize what your words portend," said Armstrong in that same level, quiet tone. "If you or any other man tries to come between me and Dorothy, he'll be set aside. Do you think I'm marrying for money? Do you think I give a tinker's damn whether you're rich or poor, an honest man or a thief—except for Dorothy's sake? Sit down and listen to me. I'm not talking charity. I'm talking business."
Deming dropped once more into his chair, an old man again. He shaded his eyes with his hand, and his fingers trembled. No one regarded him; every eye was now fastened upon Armstrong.
"I've very little time to talk with you, gentlemen," said the latter crisply. "More important matters await me downstairs and I want no arguments. I will make a proposal which you may either accept or refuse. I make it, understand, purely as a business proposition."
"Then you'll lend us the ten thousand?" asked a hopeful voice.
"I will not," said Armstrong. "Rather, I cannot."
"What do you mean, then?"
Armstrong stood silent a moment. This brief silence emphasized his dominance; every man there was listening intently for his proposal. When it came, it held an unspeakable bitterness.
"Gentlemen, we meet downstairs upon a social plane, but here I speak to you as a business man, without the least personal animas. I'll not lend this money for the same reason that no bank will lend it, for the same reason that you'll not lend it to yourselves. Your credit is totally exhausted. The loan would result in nothing.
"For the past year or more," he went on inexorably, "your company has gone from bad to worse. It has been made a dumping ground for wholly inefficient relatives and friends. Your sales department is a joke. Your purchasing department is topheavy with poor judgment and rotten with graft. Your advertising department is a byword in the trade for doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. Above all, your management is so absolutely hopeless that the entire organization is affected. I might better say, infected."
Some of the faces about the table flushed at these words; some turned pale. Deming did not move, until Armstrong uttered his final sentence. Then a slight quiver shook the man's shoulders. This was a confession, an admission, a realization. Ruin opens the eyes that prosperity has blinded.
Slosson, who was assistant general manager, leaped to his feet in a blaze of anger.
"You lie, when you say we've dumped worthless men—"
"Let me prove it," cut in the inflexible voice of Armstrong. "Two months ago, Mr. Slosson, you put two of your relatives at the head of the rolled oats department. One of those men was an accountant to whom no bonding house would furnish bond. The other had been a railroad clerk until you gave him a position of authority. Will you kindly sit down and let me finish, or do you wish further evidence?"
Slosson, rendered inarticulate by mingled fury and fear, sat down. Armstrong's minute knowledge came as a shock; it terrorized him, appalled him. Other men about the table showed how deeply they, too, were disconcerted.
"Mr. Williams," proceeded Armstrong calmly, "I believe you are the treasurer of Food Products. I understand that you recently obtained licenses from some thirty states to market under the blue sky law an issue of preferred stock to the amount of half a million. Is this correct?"
"That—why, yes, it is!" stammered Ried Williams. "That's so, Armstrong. We've had no opportunity to market the stock, of course; arrangements haven't been made. In the present condition of industrial depression, it is very hard to market—"
"Thank you," said Armstrong incisively. "Gentlemen, I propose to find this ten thousand dollars which you need urgently, on the following terms: The assets of your company will be appraised, and within thirty days your company will be purchased upon an appraised and agreed basis, by Consolidated Securities, who will thereafter own the business. I will require, on behalf of the Armstrong Company, a contract to act as your fiscal agent and to market this stock issue of yours.
"As a preliminary to this purchase of your company, I demand the resignation of the entire management and directorate of Food Products, in favor of men to be nominated by Consolidated; this to take effect within three days. Mr. Deming will remain as president, but without power to interfere in the management of the business. None other of the present officers will remain. Should you refuse this proposal, there is no alternative."
Armstrong sat down.
A silence of dismayed consternation, of incredulity pervaded by anger, greeted his words. Deming was the only man who seemed to make no mental protest. Wearily passing a hand across his brow, Deming looked up.
"Reese, you don't know just how badly involved the company is—"
"I do—and I know something you don't know. Your books show a hundred and fifty thousand in assets which are either padded or outright false, but which Consolidated will accept. In justice to our own stockholders, we shall write off these worthless assets at once. We are prepared to face this loss without demur."
A moment's pause. This revelation struck absolute fear into some of those present. Then some one spoke up roughly:
"How the hell do we know your company will do all this? Findlater is president of it, not you. How do we know Consolidated Securities will back you up?"
For the first time, the cold poise of Armstrong's features was broken. The faintest shadow of a smile curved his lips.
"Because," he answered, "I am Consolidated Securities."
A chuckle from Macgowan's corner gave this statement emphatic endorsement. That chuckle reached every man present. It dismayed them afresh, startled them, struck a chill into their very souls. Their faces contracted in furious anger, only to become impotent and vacant again. They were powerless to help themselves, to resent insults. Without Armstrong's help, they faced ruin.
Armstrong glanced at his watch.
"Speak up, please," he said. "I want a decision at once. Yes or no?"
"You can't market that stock!" broke out Ried Williams, a desperate gleam in his dark and crafty eyes. "Several companies have turned it down!"
"I'm not asking you to talk, but to vote," said Armstrong coldly. "If I contract to market that stock, it'll be done. Yes or no, Mr. Williams?"
"Yes," said Williams, speaking like a man of wood.
"And you, Mr. Slosson?"
Slosson glared, flushed, swallowed hard—nodded assent. So it went, with no dissenting voice, and came at last to Deming. He rose suddenly to his feet, his hand extended.
"God bless you, Reese! Do it if you can, and thanks for your thought of me. But I'll not remain in the company. I've lost my grip of late years. I'll get out entirely, with whatever can be saved from the wreck. And for what you're doing—"
"I'm doing nothing," said Armstrong quietly. "Since this matter is now settled, I suggest that the meeting be adjourned until to-night at eight o'clock. Mr. Macgowan will represent me in all future negotiations."
"What about this loan?" Deming caught up the telegram. "It demands the cash—"
Armstrong nodded. "I'll have to borrow the money from Consolidated. Can you offer any security?"
"Nothing but notes," said Deming. "Will our paper for twenty-five thousand do?"
At this, the face of Lawrence Macgowan lighted suddenly, as though some unexpected exultation had flashed into the man's soul. Armstrong turned to him.
"Certainly. Lawrence, will you be good enough to attend to it? I'll sign a check at once. Obtain the money for me from Consolidated, and turn over the securities to Consolidated—the loan will be to the Armstrong Company. Mr. Williams can wire these people that a check is in the mails, and can send along my check. I believe you have all the papers necessary to settle things to-night with these gentlemen?"
Macgowan assented with a nod. Armstrong was turning from the table when up before him sprang Pete Slosson. The latter's face was livid with anger and wild suspicion.
"By the lord, Armstrong, I believe you had this all framed up!" shouted Slosson, his fist banging the table. "Did you and Macgowan come here meaning to take over this company? Did you have the damnable nerve to do this?"
Armstrong, regarding him coldly, made a slight gesture of assent.
"Certainly I did," he said. "I had not foreseen that the emergency had come to-day, but was prepared." He turned to Deming. "I had intended leaving Macgowan to talk things over with you and present this course as a future means of saving Food Products. Since this crisis has turned up to-day, I took occasion to present it myself. If you would prefer that I leave your company alone—"
Deming flushed, and took the arm of the younger man.
"Reese, you're worth all of us," he said simply. "If you can save my business reputation, let the rest go! Now, gentlemen, business is over; our guests await us downstairs. Suppose we return to a social status and account this meeting adjourned until to-night. I am sure that Mr. Macgowan will handle matters acceptably."
"He will," assented Armstrong, and left the room with Deming.
Chairs scraped back and men came to their feet, following. Macgowan, making some notes, and writing out the check for Williams, was the last to depart. At the door, he overtook Ried Williams, and put his hand on the arm of his cousin.
"I'll have Reese sign this check right away. Ried, we have just witnessed a very interesting psychological study—the intolerance of a young man. You observed it?"
Williams frowned. "You mean—Slosson?"
"I don't mean Slosson. I mean the young Napoleon who issued his dicta and made those dicta obeyed. That is the vice of the young, Ried; to lack sufferance of the errors that others make. In a young man, intolerance is a natural inheritance; in an older man, it is an unpardonable fault."
The sallow features of Williams flushed a little.
"He talked to us as though we were—niggers!" he rasped. The clasp of Macgowan's fingers tightened slightly on his arm.
"Exactly, my dear Ried," came the smooth accents. "But remember, he is a young man! His education is not yet finished."
With this cryptic remark, Macgowan hurried off to join the groom, leaving Williams to stare after him in frowning surmise.
Dorothy glanced up from the letter which she was eagerly devouring.
"Father writes that the company is completely reorganized and that he's retiring for good—and, Reese, he says to thank you for everything! Were things so bad as that?"
"Worse," said Armstrong laconically, then smiled as his wife's fingers crept into his.
This man, to whose lips a smile came so rarely, had of a sudden become a boy again, laughing from morning to night, adoring his bride with a strangely fearful veneration yet partaking with her in a joyous and exhilarating zest, a gayety unabashed and unashamed, a sheer reckless enjoyment of youth and life—and partnership.
Partnership, that was it! That was the mystery, oldest of the world's life, before which men and women fall down and worship in prayer and joyous laughter and exalted fear, the mystery wherein two becomes as one, one in faith and hope and tears and laughter, one for better or for worse; and each of them knowing with a deliberate surety that though all the sky crash down in ruin, there remains to welcome them one soul who cannot falter or fail—past life, past death, into hell or heaven itself.
It is not every couple, however, who perceive this sort of thing in marriage.
The honeymoon was ten days gone. Another four days and New York would loom up ahead, and the deep, far-flung line of the future's horizon would begin to circumscribe things and events and destiny for these two. Now, however, was no thought of the future. Around them hung the crisp, odorous freshness of the Carolina air; the long yellow hills with their furred throats of piney woods lifted into the sky and sang under the winds, and over the reaches of yellow sand, of creamy adobe mud, of desolate green-tinged hills, there was no hint that the summer had gone again and the days were shortening.
Dorothy laid aside her letter and looked up.
"That telegram, Reese? Was it anything important?"
"From Macgowan, dear. All arrangements have been made, and on the first of the month Food Products passes into our hands. The stock-selling campaign will start moving just as soon as I get back to New York and take things in hand. I think I'll spread this stock out over the whole country."
"Are you in a hurry to reach New York?"
Armstrong laughed, and pressed her fingers in his.
"Not a bit of it! From this day forth, lady, business comes second in my young life. For your sake, business is necessary; I'm going to give you the best there is in life, and to do that I make use of business. And I like it, too."
"You'll keep it your servant, dear?"
"You bet! Afraid you'll have a rival?" Armstrong caught her hand to his lips. "Never! By this hand I swear it!"
"Don't be silly—oh, be as silly as you like; I love you!" She broke into a clear trill of laughter. Then she sobered, and gave him a swift, grave look. "Tell me something, Reese. The day we were married—that meeting in father's library! Was it because of some emergency in his affairs that the wedding was delayed?"
Armstrong nodded. He had meant to speak of this before, but no opportunity had arisen.
"Sure, Dot. You may as well know that your father's business was in bad shape. Those fellows who were running things, Williams, and the rest, were heading to a smash—and the crisis happened to come that day. It's all over with, thank heaven! We've chucked 'em out and will run the business right."
"You're not going back to Evansville to manage it?"
Armstrong's gaze came to her suddenly, as he searched for the meaning behind her words.
"Listen, Dot; are we partners?"
"In everything, my dear. Why?"
"Then in business as in other things. Good! If Food Products had not been taken over by Consolidated, it would now be out of existence; we saved it from bankruptcy, and we'll make money by it. In order to keep faith with the stockholders, in order to let your father come clear and leave everything square and fair behind him, we have to dig pretty deep; some of the assets must be totally written off. Ultimately the company will be a good investment, but it won't be any exclusive affair for me, lady.
"You see, it's one of several companies owned and run by Consolidated—which is under my control. I can't attend to any one of these companies myself; I pay other men to do that. I attend to the loan and financing business, the stock-selling campaigns, which formed the prime object of Consolidated. So, you see, if I leave New York—"
Her hand fluttered swiftly over his mouth.
"I didn't mean that at all!" she exclaimed. "I go with you, my dear, not you with me! I'm not trying to get you back to Evansville, although of course I love it there. But, Reese, father's whole life has been bound up in Food Products; he was proud of it, proud to have the company carry his name, proud of its past! Was it necessary for him to leave the company?"
Armstrong was startled by some undertone of her voice. For a moment he met her grave, steady gaze; he wondered what thoughts were stirring behind those eyes of brilliant, steely blue, which could so quickly change to a deeper violet.
And again, he wondered at the clear beauty of her—beauty of golden hair, of skin like pink-and-white coral, beauty of thought and soul within. It brought an ache into his heart, an ache of sheer sweet joy that this woman had found him worthy of her. He must never fail her—ah! And if he did?
At least, she would never fail him.
Armstrong was smiling at this thought, when her words recurred to him and his brain darted upon the answer. Perhaps it was telepathy, for he reached down and took the letter from her lap. A newspaper clipping came into his fingers. Intuition had guided him aright.
He read the clipping thoughtfully:
"It is with great regret that we announce the retirement of J. Fortescue Deming from the active management of the Deming Food Products Company. To many this announcement will come as a shock. For a generation past, the name of J. Fortescue Deming has been identified with the growth of Evansville—"
Armstrong's brow creased slightly as he read on, but he made no comment. Then he picked up the letter, asked permission with a glance, and Dorothy nodded. He read very carefully what Deming had written, and folded up the letter again.
"Dot," he said slowly, "surely you don't believe that your father cherishes any resentment because—"
"Why—Reese!" she broke out impulsively. "Can you voice such a thought, after what he wrote there? Doesn't every word of that letter show that he thinks you splendid and generous, that he feels toward you only the warmest gratitude and appreciation? Don't be silly!"
"The letter and the newspaper clipping are two very different things, my dear," said Armstrong drily. "I wanted your father to remain in the company as titular president,causa honoris; he refused. I could not offer him control of the company, of course—"
"Listen to me, dear boy!" Dorothy compelled his eyes to hers, and he found them very grave and earnest. "Get it out of your foolish head, now and forever, that father could feel anything but the deepest gratitude—"
"It's not in my head," broke in Armstrong soberly. "It's in yours, I'm afraid."
"It's not! Why, the last thing before we left home that day, father—well, he wasn't there when I said good-by, and I found him upstairs, all by himself; and, Reese, he was praying—for us—"
She broke off for a moment, struggling with swift-starting tears.
"He spoke of you, Reese; he was happy, happy! I've never seen him so happy that I can remember. It seemed that a load was gone from him. And whenever I've thought of how he spoke and what he said of you, it's made me very humble to think that you were mine, my husband—"
Armstrong drew her to him, and their lips met. His stab of disturbing fear was quite gone; gladness surged through him and faith, and wonder at the woman who was his.
Even the austere Cæsar, men say, once was young.
Later that day, Reese Armstrong sat in the hotel lobby, before a glowing pyre of logs that swept the afternoon chill out of the air. He was alone, for Dorothy was answering her father's letter. As he stared into the flicker of the flames and thought once more of that newspaper clipping, he felt a lingering doubt. Somehow it spelled evil to him.
The tone of it, the unworded, tacit insinuation of it, held a barb that stung him deeply. He could see how the impression might go forth that he had forced Deming out of Food Products and had grabbed the company. That was not true; yet here lay the hint, very cleverly written.
"And written with intent, or I'm a Dutchman!" thought Armstrong.
He had not far to seek for enemies; the former directorate of Food Products hated him bitterly enough. He had himself to blame for this, since he had not hidden his scorn and despite of them; he realized now the insolence of his own manner. They would have preferred to let the company crash, rather than be saved by him—but their pride had given way before their selfish interests. No doubt one of them had been behind the publication of this innuendo in a local newspaper. Williams, it might be; that sallow, crafty scoundrel was the sort to do such a thing.
Armstrong did not know that Williams and Macgowan were cousins. Few people did know it.
The fact that this innuendo had come in Dorothy's letter from her father, hurt; though of course Deming had not perceived the hint in the clipping. Further, Armstrong was not unmindful of a slight rift within the Consolidated lute. Findlater, his nominal president, was taking a new and active interest in the company's affairs.
Findlater, like the other directors, was a figurehead. They had been paid flatly in stock and drew no salaries. With former bank connections, Findlater had been valuable to Armstrong, and was paid for that value. Now, finding that Consolidated was a big thing, Findlater was prying about and about, intruding here and there, sniffing like a dog on the scent of game. Armstrong's lip curled at the thought of Findlater, whom he had come to dislike cordially.
"He and the rest—all of 'em on the scent, except Macgowan," he reflected. "Looking for pickings! Well, they backed me, but I have the control. Consolidated is making money, they're making money, and our investors are making money. I wonder if this sly thrust from Evansville could have any throwback to Findlater and his crowd?"
He thought of wiring Macgowan to look into this, and decided in the negative. Mac need not be troubled with such petty things. This was only some little spite-work, not worth attention. Besides, Findlater as yet knew nothing about the inside of the Food Products affair. That lay between Armstrong and Macgowan and Jimmy Wren alone.
Macgowan! There was a man for you! Armstrong's face warmed at the bare thought of his friend. Only Macgowan, from the start, had gone into Consolidated with a firm and unshaken faith. Only Macgowan had fought past one crisis after another with all the power of his keen intellect. Only Macgowan had forced those other men to stay in line behind Armstrong.
Macgowan had seen the value of that queer and extraordinary idea which Armstrong brought with him to New York. The old notion of finance as a war, said Armstrong, had seen its day and was doomed. It was purely an Old Testament teaching, wherein one side was victor, the other side vanquished; it was a preachment of conquest, of destruction without compromise—of spoils. It was a doctrine of loot, and in the new world of to-day this old doctrine was as dead as Moses.
Instead, Armstrong brought forth a New Testament ideal; that, instead of war, there should be mutual advancement. He preached that finance was a successful and worth-while thing only when all parties to the transaction were gainers. And how they had laughed!
"A fine socialistic theory!" they said. "Mac, how much of a soviet retainer are you handling? Where'd you pick up this radical, anyhow?"
Macgowan did not laugh; he merely argued, on the basis of Armstrong's detailed plan of operations. When Lawrence Macgowan argued, the gods were themselves confounded. In this instance, Macgowan flung himself into the fight whole-heartedly, with amazing vigor and energy. One would have said that he fought for himself, rather than for Armstrong. Or, perhaps, he fought for Armstrong's ideal, which he was making his own.
At all events, Macgowan won the fight. Consolidated went through, and Armstrong found himself secure in the control of this holding company, free to embark upon the larger dream. Nor was he blind to the danger that now threatened. Macgowan had once or twice warned him that Findlater had scented blood, that the other directors were sniffing uneasily; all except old Judge Holcomb, who was true as steel. Jimmy Wren had perceived it, too.
Small good it would do them! Armstrong's control was secure. The Armstrong Company, the selling organization through which he reached out to those thousands of investors, was devoted to him, was his alone. Jimmy Wren, its manager, held for Armstrong a dog-like trust and affection. The investors themselves were his; a supremely important fact, this! It was not the organization but Reese Armstrong whom they trusted.
Macgowan held a block of stock in Consolidated, and was content; he drew fees only for his services as Armstrong's personal attorney. In all the months of their close fellowship, Armstrong had never known his friend to ask an unworthy favor. There were no relatives to be given soft jobs. There were no hangers-on to be handed sinecures. Mac stood four-square.
A few short weeks before his marriage, when first arose this suspicion of loot-madness on the part of Findlater and his friends, Armstrong instructed Macgowan to handle the matter. He himself would be busy, would be away; he had more implicit confidence in Macgowan's ability to handle things smoothly than in his own.
"I'll take care of it," said the attorney. "But time has run along since we mapped out Consolidated's scheme of operations. That voting trust, for example."
Armstrong reflected briefly. At the formation of the selling company, the Armstrong Company, he had placed most of his common or voting stock of Consolidated Securities in a voting trust. Macgowan, Findlater and Jimmy Wren, who was secretary of consolidated as well as manager of the Armstrong Company, controlled this trust, all shares being pooled. Since Macgowan and Jimmy Wren were unalterably Armstrong's spokesmen, this let him control Consolidated without figuring too prominently in that control.
Now, as he stared into the log fire and remembered these things, Armstrong recalled verbatim that short conversation with Lawrence Macgowan.
"Then the trust has expired, Mac?"
"Two weeks ago."
"Renew it—say, until the end of next March, up to but not including the next annual meeting," directed Armstrong. "That leaves me free. You and Wren can handle anything that Findlater or his crowd may bring up. Send over the papers at once. Findlater won't object? He's rather puffed up over his job of president, these days."
"I'd like to see him object!" said Macgowan, drily.
Thus it had been arranged.
Now, watching visions in the ruddy flames, Armstrong's heart warmed to the thought of his friend. Few men had such a bar of steel at their back! Best of all, he had not bought Macgowan with gold. He had bought him with friendship, with the fairy coin of a mutual dream.
"I must be luckier than most," mused Armstrong. "They say that a man has only one person who'll never go back on him—his wife. But I have two. My wife, and Mac."
"A penny for your thoughts!" said a laughing voice in his ear.
Armstrong started, came to his feet, and smiled into the eyes of Dorothy.
"It'll take something better than a penny," he retorted gayly.
"Not here—not here in the lobby, you shameless creature!" Dorothy drew back hastily, her eyes dancing. "I'll pay, and with interest! What were you thinking about, as you sat there smiling into the fire?"
"About you," he answered promptly. "And how lucky I am to have both you and a friend! Your faith and love, and the friendship of Lawrence Macgowan."
He fancied that a faint shadow leaped into her eyes. The fancy was dissipated by her burst of hearty laughter.
"Oh! You should put it the other way—he's lucky to have you for a friend! Well, my letters are finished and I'm ready for a walk. Are you?"
"With you—always! I hope everybody in sight knows we're bride and groom!"
"They do, and I don't care a bit! Come on."
They went out arm in arm, laughing together.
There are two dreams which every developed and normal woman cherishes. One, of wee hands at her breast. The other, that she may some day have either the building, or the complete rebuilding, of a home; and it is always more enjoyable to correct and profit by the mistakes of other folk than it is to make our own mistakes.
Aircastle Point fulfilled this latter dream for Dorothy Armstrong.
The point itself was private property, owned by the dozen men who had their homes here; around its islands and properties swept the sea-tides, with Long Island Sound opening out beyond. Lying within the corporate limits of a town once famed as being forty-five minutes from Broadway, Aircastle Point was both remote from the citied roar yet near enough to New York.
When Dorothy viewed this future home of hers, the delight that upsprang in her became a rapture, an ecstasy of eager planning, that fully verified Armstrong's choice of a location. She found an old Dutch farmhouse with wall panels, corner fireplaces and other treasures of a once comfortable and simple home life. On three sides, a lawn swept down to the sea, barred by a low wall of rough stone. Huge elms and oaks overshadowed the house, and across the lawn were flung old cedars and pines, contorted and blown by the salt winds into fantastic shapes.
Armstrong slyly suggested decorators, then refrained from further intrusion. He had certain ideas of his own, but watched unobtrusively to see what would happen. Thus, thinking to please him, Dorothy called in a gentleman from Fifth Avenue, who made two very accurately beautiful paintings of her home-interior as it should be. Reese accompanied his wife to view the results, and blandly expressed himself as charmed. Dorothy eyed him, then turned to the decorator with her sweetest air.
"These pictures are exquisite. I should like to buy them from you."
"You flatter us, Mrs. Armstrong!" came the unctuous response, with the usual simper. "We try to express an individualistic taste, of course—this dining room, for example. You will notice that it is entirely correct; Jacobean throughout. People are doing these things so much this season, of course! This touch of color over the buffet is a splendid bit of tapestry that I have in mind; really quite good, don't you think? An excellent bit of still life—game—"
"I'm sure your ideas are excellent," said Dorothy. "What is the price of these?"
"Oh, say fifty dollars for both pictures; we do not make a practice of selling these things, you know, and if you decide to confide the work to us, as I am confident you will, we shall be very glad to deduct the amount from our fee."
Dorothy paid for the two pictures. Something in her air aroused the decorator to questions, to an unfortunate probing. So Dorothy gave him the truth which he sought.
"You see," she explained sweetly, "I want them because they are really very nice, and also in order to show what we've escaped. My taste in decorating is quite hopeless, you know, for I want a home and not an inane color effect—"
Armstrong exploded in a burst of laughter and hastened to escort Dorothy from the outraged precincts. Safely in the car, she turned dancing eyes to him.
"Then you don't insist on a decorator?"
"No!"
A sigh of relief, and she settled back comfortably.
"I'm so glad! Just think of that absurd man, actually intending to tear out all those beautiful old panels! Reese, I'm going to spend some money, but in three weeks we'll have a home—a real home, too! It was good of you to wait and let me do it, instead of trying to surprise me with everything done."
"Go ahead, the sky's the limit," said Armstrong, who was hugely delighted by the whole affair.
Three weeks, in fact, saw them settled in the finished portion of the house, while a small army of workmen still struggled with unfinished rooms and grounds and garden, under Dorothy's direction.
Lawrence Macgowan was the first guest to view the new home, or rather the completed portion of it. Armstrong brought him down from the city over a week-end, and eagerly displayed the grounds and house. He was delighted by his friend's unchecked enthusiasm and endorsement of everything that was being done.
At dinner, Macgowan heard the story about the decorators, and roared over it. When they had adjourned to the living room and were discussing Dorothy's choice of rugs, Macgowan stood with his back to the log fire, fingering his cigar; then he turned impulsively to Dorothy, and spoke.
"My dear Dorothy, may I make a frank confession?"
Dorothy's smile belied the flash of steel in her glance. "Certainly, if Reese may be a party to it!"
"Oh, he's a part of it." Macgowan chuckled, in his odd manner of being inwardly amused over something unspoken. "You see, like every confirmed bachelor who beholds his best friend embarking on the wine-dark sea of matrimony, I have hitherto, my dear Dorothy, been ungallant enough to congratulate you—quite irrespective of your charming qualities—upon the acquisition of your husband."
He paused, regarding Dorothy with his slightly aggressive, straightforward gaze. His air was half reflective, half admiring.
"Well, where's the crime in that?" she demanded brightly. "Don't you suppose that women ever think they are fortunate? We're not all stuck-up prigs, grandly convinced of the blessings we bestow—not a bit of it!"
Macgowan waved his cigar.
"Ah, but I confess my error! It is Reese who deserves the congratulations which I now tender with all my heart, not with the lips alone! Wives are easily found, my dear fellow," turning to Armstrong, "but home-makers are rare, I assure you. So rare, indeed, that I—"
He ended with a sigh and a gesture, as though the rarity of home-makers accounted for his own single state. Then, with a sudden thrust of his cigar, he indicated the rooms beyond.
"Look at this place! Look at that burnt-ivory woodwork, those rugs, these bits of polished wood that we call furniture! Look at those bright yellow valences, those blue curtains, that pinkish splendor of a Kirman on the floor! Why, the raw fighting colors are as sweetly harmonious, as delicately blended, as the vivid hues of some old Chinese embroidery! Only an artist can blend raw colors.