"Dear Mr. Armitage: If you happen to be in New York, I should be glad if you could find it convenient to call at the above address.
"Dear Mr. Armitage: If you happen to be in New York, I should be glad if you could find it convenient to call at the above address.
"Yours faithfully,"John Harmon."
The town house of John Harmon was conspicuous for its size and beauty even on an avenue famous for its magnificent residences. With a frontage of a hundred feet facing Central Park, it was constructed entirely of French gray stone, Renaissance style, with turrets, gables, oriel windows, elaborately carved stone loggias and balconies, tiled roofs and all the other architectural ornamentation of that picturesque period. Set back some distance from the road, it was surrounded by tastefully laid-out grounds, with a handsome portico decorated by elaborate stone carvings, and a driveway bordered with flower-beds, entrance to which was made through ornamental gates of massive bronze.
Beautiful from the exterior as was this railroad king's home, within it was furnished with the lavish grandeur of a royal palace. All Europe had been ransacked to fill it with beautiful and costly art treasures. At the back of the large entrance-hall,with its magnificent frescoed ceilings, its satin hangings, marble pillars and stained-glass windows, was a monumental staircase of pure Italian marble and graceful design which led to the reception-room and other apartments above. The stairway was artistically decorated with marble statuary, trophies of arms and priceless tapestries. On the second floor were the famous art-galleries hung with paintings by the ancient and modern masters.
It was only on extraordinary occasions that visitors were afforded an opportunity to see all the art treasures which the house contained. For the greater part of the year the pictures were not on view. To-day, however, was one of the rare exceptions. Mr. Harmon had thrown open his entire house in honor of the special event which he was celebrating.
Outside the house, on Fifth Avenue, a crowd of people stood watching the long string of carriages, automobiles and taxi-cabs in line before the gate. The day, although fine, was cold and windy and an awning had been stretched from the portico to the curb to protect the guests from the weather. Thecrowd of curious sightseers grew larger as each moment other cabs and automobiles dashed up. A mounted policeman prevented the spectators from pressing too close and kept the way open for regular traffic, while Mr. Harmon's servants in powdered hair and knee-breeches received each newcomer.
"Gee! Get on to 'em guys wid der white wigs!" cried out a cheeky boy.
"What's all the fuss about?" inquired a bystander.
"Blessed if I know," replied the man curtly.
A well-dressed woman stopped and watched the scene with interest.
"Whose house is that?" she inquired of a policeman.
"John Harmon's, m'm," replied the officer of the law.
"The railroad man?" she asked, with growing interest.
"Yes," answered her informant. "Mr. Harmon's daughter was wrecked on theAtlanta, you know. She was reported drowned. Then they found her on a desert island. She's home to-day and they'regiving a reception to all their friends in honor of her return."
In the splendid reception-room facing the Avenue rich with its gold and crimson furnishings, delicately frescoed ceilings, satin brocade hangings, priceless rugs, onyx tables and heavy red carpet, Grace was the center of an excited throng of women. Each fresh arrival literally fought her way through the crowd to get a glimpse of the heroine of the hour. There were murmurs of surprise and admiration on all sides as they caught sight of her.
They expected to see Grace a physical wreck after all the suffering she had gone through during her enforced imprisonment on the desert island. Some had gone so far as to whisper that the young heiress would never recover from the effects of the nervous shock. Such a terrible experience, they said, was more than sufficient to kill a strong woman. What effect, therefore, must it have had on the delicate Miss Harmon, whose health already gave cause for alarm before she went on that fatal voyage?
When the invited guests entered the reception-room and saw Grace beaming and smiling in thecenter of a circle of enthusiastic friends they could scarcely believe their eyes. To their utter astonishment she was precisely the opposite of what they had imagined. Instead of the frail, languid girl to whom they had said good-by when theAtlantasailed from New York some six months before, she was the picture of good health, in as perfect physical condition as she had ever been in her life. Her face was tanned from long exposure to the sun, but the deeper color only heightened the rich effects of her beauty. It became her dark hair and her splendid eyes. She was a little stouter, but her fuller figure only set off to better advantage a new gown of clinging silver cloth, trimmed with rare lace. She looked radiant. Whispered murmurs of admiration were heard in all parts of the room. The women raved about her figure, her coloring and her hair, and the men fell over each other in their eagerness to attract her attention.
The reception-rooms were already crowded and new arrivals were coming in constantly. Somebody said that Prince Sergius of Eurasia was present, and there was a general craning of necks to get a glimpseof royalty. A woman whispered confidentially to a friend that his royal highness had been a constant caller since Miss Harmon's return and that there were good grounds for believing that they were engaged. In a few minutes the friend had spread the information all over the room that the engagement was official and would immediately be made public.
Supremely unconscious of the gossip of which she was the envied object, Grace stood in a corner of the room surrounded by Mrs. Wesley Stuart, Professor Hanson, Mrs. Phelps, and the Hon. Percy Fitzhugh. All fellow survivors of the wreck of theAtlanta, they made an interesting little group by themselves as they stood comparing notes and describing their adventures, while Mr. and Mrs. Harmon, scarcely able yet to believe the good news that their darling child had returned from the dead, went from one to another telling the wonderful story of her life on a desert island.
For the hundredth time Grace told and retold the story of the wreck—how she fell into the water from the overturned life-boat, and after swimming somedistance, was fast becoming exhausted when suddenly one of the crew seized her and dragged her ashore. She told of her horrible adventure with the cobra and narrated in detail all the other incidents of her sojourn on the desert island up to the time that she was rescued by theSaucy Polly.
Mrs. Stuart explained how she and Professor Hanson, together with Mr. Fitzhugh got away in one of the life-boats. Mrs. Phelps and Count von Hatzfeldt were also saved, but poor Captain Summers was drowned, a martyr to duty. He refused to leave the bridge and went down with his ship, keeping the whistle blowing as the vessel sank out of sight beneath the waves. After rowing all night they were picked up the following day by a P. and O. steamer bound from Calcutta to Southampton. They naturally supposed Grace was among the drowned, and, on arriving in England, gave her name among the others to the correspondents, who cabled the sensational news to New York.
Mrs. Stuart threw her arms around Grace's neck and kissed her effusively.
"Oh, my poor, dear girl," she cried. "If you onlyknew what mental agonies I've suffered! I thought that I should never see you again. I blamed myself for having suggested the voyage. I held myself responsible. I did not dare look your poor father in the face. Your mental suffering must have been terrible, to say nothing of the dangers you were subjected to. How terrified you must have been to be all alone with that dreadful stoker! You should thank heaven he did you no violence. A man of that character is capable of anything—especially when alone with a defenceless woman."
Grace smiled faintly. A thoughtful expression came into her face. She made no answer, and Mrs. Stuart repeated her question:
"Weren't you afraid of him?"
Aroused from her reverie, Grace answered:
"No, not at all, we got along capitally. You know, dear," she went on, "the devil is never as black as he is painted. When people don't get along together, it is very often because they don't understand each other."
Mrs. Stuart looked at her formerprotégéewith blank astonishment.
"So this stoker fellow—you think you understand him? Did you actually take the trouble to understand him?"
She looked closely at Grace, a searching look that made the latter's cheeks redden.
"Perhaps," went on Mrs. Stuart, with a knowing smile, "you both came to a perfect understanding—some foolish romance which you'd blush now to acknowledge."
"Don't be silly, Cora," answered Grace quickly. "You know he saved my life twice. The least I could do was to be civil to him."
"Where is he now?" demanded Mrs. Stuart.
"I haven't the slightest idea," replied Grace. "He returned to America, of course, on theSaucy Polly, and when the ship arrived at Boston my father was there to meet me. When I had said what he had done for me, father was anxious to repay him, but he refused to take anything and mysteriously disappeared. I have not seen him since, but we are trying to trace him. Father has written to the owner of theSaucy Polly, whom, we think, knows his whereabouts."
"Perfectly delicious!" exclaimed Mrs. Stuart sarcastically. "Your father can offer him a position as coachman, footman or butler. No doubt he's dead in love with you! The romance wouldn't be complete unless you eloped with him!"
Grace was silent. Her friend's cynicism grated on her. She turned her head away afraid that the expression on her face might betray her. How often she thought words uttered in jest hit upon the truth! She did not tell Mrs. Stuart that she was just as anxious to have news of Armitage as was her father. Strangely enough, her return home, which she thought would fill her with joy, had failed to give her all the happiness she expected. Once more she was enjoying the social prestige, all the luxuries that her father's position and money secured for her, yet there were moments when she missed those days on Hope Island when her greatest ambition was to prepare a satisfactory meal for her companion's return.
She wondered if she would ever see him again. She knew why he had disappeared. He understood that there could never be anything between them.They belonged to different worlds. She had returned to hers; he to his. She would not have expected anything else of him. She would have been disappointed in him if he had done anything else. He was not the kind of man to come round, hat in hand, and ask payment for his services. No matter how poor he might be, he was too proud for that, and secretly in her heart she rejoiced to think that the man she cared for was of that stamp.
Of course, their little love-affair was a thing of the past. When she thought of it she felt inclined to laugh, it was so preposterously out of keeping with her social position. Probably she would never see him again. She would try not to, because, secretly, she was afraid of herself. She was afraid that if she saw him again and heard his voice, if ever again he spoke to her as he had on that island, she would be tempted to throw herself into his arms, no matter what her position or how it might wreck her future. She remembered the story Professor Hanson had told her of a girl of good family marrying an Indian. She recalled the stories she had seen in the papers of rich girls running away with theircoachmen. She could understand those things now. There was something in these men, some strange magnetic power, that made girls love them for themselves, regardless of the disastrous consequences.
Mr. Harmon was listening with rapture to the flattering comments on all sides, on his daughter's improved appearance, when suddenly the English butler approached him and said quietly:
"May I speak to you a minute, Sir?"
"Yes, Hawkins, what is it?" answered Mr. Harmon impatiently.
"There's some one down-stairs to see you, Sir."
"Some one to see me?" echoed Mr. Harmon. "Go and tell him to come up—like all the rest."
The butler did not budge. He had been in service boy and man for over forty years, and he thought he knew what kind of people were privileged to enter his master's home as guests.
"Didn't you hear me?" repeated Mr. Harmon. "Go and tell him to come up."
"Excuse me, Sir—it is not a visitor, Sir. It's a person who tried to come in the front way, shovin' and elbowin' 'is way in along with the guests as if'ee was a regular caller, sir. The policeman collared 'im, thinkin' 'ee was up to no good. You can never tell, sir. Sometimes they're arter the coats and umbrellas, sir. But the feller said you 'ad written him, sir, to come 'ere. So the policeman let 'im go. But we wouldn't let him come in the front way, Sir. We hustled 'im in through the tradesmen's entrance, and 'ee's down-stairs now. James is lookin' arter the silver, Sir, so there ain't no danger, there, Sir."
"What's that?" exclaimed Mr. Harmon. "A person of that description says that I wrote him to come here. He must be an impostor. Throw him out—have him arrested."
The butler gave a grin of self-satisfaction. Rubbing his hands, he said:
"That's wot I thought, Sir. Leave 'im to me, Sir. We'll take care of 'im, Sir."
He was about to retire when Mr. Harmon suddenly had an idea.
"Can it possibly be——" he muttered to himself. "It must be he." Turning to the butler he went on: "Here, Hawkins, don't say a word to any one—particularlynot to my daughter. Take the man to my library. I'll be down at once."
Astonished, and also hurt, that his employer should have acquaintances whose appearance necessitated their being ushered in through the tradesman's entrance, the butler withdrew.
After greeting a few more arrivals and responding to a toast to his daughter in a glass of champagne, at the buffet-table besieged by a hungry and noisy crowd, Mr. Harmon slipped away unobserved and made his way to the library.
As Mr. Harmon entered the room, he saw a man, tall, square-shouldered, roughly dressed, standing with his back to the door. The stranger was so busy in admiring contemplation of a fine full-length oil-painting of the railroad magnate's daughter which adorned the mantelpiece that he did not hear any one enter. Mr. Harmon coughed, and the man turned quickly. It was Armitage.
The light in the room was not good, and for a moment Mr. Harmon could not distinguish his caller's features. At first he was in doubt as to his identity.
"You wished to see me, Sir," he began. "You are Mr.—Mr.——?"
"Jack Armitage is my name," the other replied carelessly. Quickly he added: "I did not seek this interview, Mr. Harmon. You wrote asking me to call."
Mr. Harmon advanced cordially and extended his hand.
"To be sure—to be sure. Sit down, Mr. Armitage. You happen to have called on a very busy day. We're having some friends to see us."
Despite his efforts to appear cordial, there was a certain embarrassment in the magnate's manner which his visitor was not slow to observe.
"So I noticed," he replied dryly. "The policeman outside didn't size me up as being a friend of yours, so he promptly ran me in. I insisted that you had asked me to call and he let me go. Then your cockney butler took me for a suspicious character, and after letting me enter, under protest, through the tradesmen's entrance, he set the footman to watch me while he went to find you up-stairs."
Mr. Harmon laughed.
"Servants judge only by appearances," he said. "If you'd driven up in a carriage and pair, they'd have received you with every mark of honor. I'm sorry if they hurt your feelings."
Armitage shrugged his shoulders and gave a little bitter laugh.
"What do I care for such jackals? I'm accustomed to that kind of thing. Well, I won't keep you, Mr. Harmon. You asked me to call. What can I do for you?"
The railroad man was taken aback. Yet he liked the man's independent spirit. Hastily he said:
"You mean what can I do for you. I sent for you because we could not allow you to go away like that. Do you suppose that I, John Harmon, would permit the man who saved my daughter to go unrewarded?"
Armitage shook his head.
"I want nothing," he said curtly.
"You want nothing?" echoed Mr. Harmon in surprise, looking his caller up and down from head to foot. "Are your circumstances such that you are in need of nothing?"
Armitage laughed bitterly.
"I need so much that I need nothing. It sounds like a paradox, but it's the truth."
Mr. Harmon looked at him in surprise.
"You weren't always so low down in the world?"
Armitage made no reply.
"You're an educated man. That I can tell fromyour speech. Some misfortune—some folly has brought you where you are."
Armitage gave an impatient gesture and, moving toward the door, said:
"I didn't come here to discuss my affairs, Mr. Harmon. You sent for me. I thought you needed me. Good afternoon."
Mr. Harmon intercepted him.
"Wait a minute, young man. Don't be so hasty. I meant no offence. Don't you see that I am interested in you? I want to help you."
"I ask help of no one," replied Armitage doggedly.
"Twice you saved my daughter's life. She and I can never forget what we owe you. She wants to thank you herself again. She could not understand your disappearance and silence. Why did you not come?"
Armitage was silent a moment, and then he said:
"What was the use? I don't belong here. I didn't wish to embarrass you. Can't you see that? I saw Miss Harmon the other day. She was walking on Fifth Avenue. She didn't see me. Why should she? I was working on a job close by. Shehappened to pass just as I was about to quit work. I looked at her, but she didn't see me. Even if she did, she wouldn't want to recognize me in these togs. I know that. I don't blame her."
"You don't know my daughter," exclaimed Mr. Harmon enthusiastically. "She is the last girl in the world to act like that. If she had seen you, she would have been the first to extend her hand. I'm a self-made man myself," he added proudly. "There's nothing snobbish about me, and I hope there isn't about my daughter. You'll come up-stairs with me now and be introduced to everybody as the man who saved her."
Armitage shook his head.
"No—it isn't you—it's the world. It's not ourselves—it's because we're afraid of what the world, our neighbors, will think. No, I wouldn't embarrass your daughter. Besides, I've no wish to be put on exhibition."
Mr. Harmon, puzzled, scratched his head.
"Well, what can we do to show our gratitude? Let me give you a little present."
He took out his check-book, and, sitting down, wrote an order to bearer for $10,000.
"Here, Mr. Armitage. This is far cheaper than I value my daughter. But it will make life easy for you. You can start some business—be practically independent for life. Here, my boy, take it with a father's gratitude."
He passed the check over to Armitage, who looked at it a moment. A smile passed over his face and slowly, deliberately, he tore it into tiny pieces.
"What are you doing?" cried Mr. Harmon.
"I can't take your money for taking care of her, Mr. Harmon. I should forever despise myself if I did. It would be bad luck to me."
"Well, what can I do for you? I can't let you go like that!"
Armitage remained silent. Then, turning suddenly, he said:
"There's only one thing I could accept from you, Mr. Harmon."
"What is that?" demanded the railroad magnate eagerly.
"Something that even you, rich as you are, cannot give me. You wouldn't give it me if you could. Good day, Mr. Harmon."
Armitage went out and, as he passed the astonished financier, he gave a last lingering look at the oil portrait which filled the space over the mantel.
In a cheap, grimy-looking hash-house on Third Avenue Armitage sat alone at a table, partaking with apparent relish of the rough yet not unwholesome fare which his slender purse could afford to pay for. The hour being late, he had exclusively to himself the services of the one greasy and cadaverous waiter, while the proprietor of the restaurant, if the "joint" might be dignified by so respectable a name, sat behind his rostrum near the window, sulkily reckoning up the day's receipts.
Through the open door came all the distressing sounds and smells that make this particular thoroughfare the noisiest and most objectionable of the city's main arteries. Overhead the elevated trains crashed with deafening noise, push-cart vendors shouted their wares, Italian organ-grinders played discordant tunes, smudged-faced, tattered children romped in the unclean gutters, slovenly housewives quarreled with cranky janitors, a drunkard staggered in bestial condition from a corner saloon,roughly moved on by a uniformed bully with swinging club; sinister figures of men and women, human derelicts, crouched in doorways, pavements and sidewalks were filthy with torn paper and decaying fruit, tattered washing hanging from broken-down fire-escapes—everything that is degraded and sordid was centered here right in the heart of the richest and most modern city in the world.
But Armitage was too busily preoccupied to be disturbed by his squalid surroundings. His appetite was keen, thanks to a day's hard work, and, while he devoured with amazing celerity the contents of his heaped-up plate, he stopped every now and then to read with closer attention the newspaper which was propped up before him. It was a torn copy of that morning'sTribune, and the part which interested him was an account on the society page of the big reception which had taken place at the residence of Mr. John Harmon on the previous day. It being a social event of some importance, two columns were devoted to it, the writer explaining the special occasion which it was intended to celebrate, and retelling in vivid detail the story of theAtlanta'sill-fated voyage. Armitage smiled as he read the account, sensationally exaggerated, of the beautiful young heiress' hairbreadth escapes from angry ocean and venomous serpent and all the other terrors of a desert island in company with a common sailor, who, when the rescue-party safely reached America, strangely disappeared despite the grateful railroad man's tireless efforts to discover his whereabouts and reward him. Then the article went on to tell of Miss Harmon's improved appearance, the delight of her friends, and to describe the wonderful gowns worn by the fashionable women who had thronged to welcome her home.
He was reading the article in a careless, amused kind of way when suddenly he came to a paragraph which made him sit up with a start. It read as follows:
"But perhaps the chief interest of the afternoon, apart from the charming young heroine, centred in a distinguished guest, Prince Sergius of Eurasia. His Royal Highness has been a frequent caller at the Harmon residence ever since Miss Harmon's return, and, as usual, gossip has been busy trying to find some plausible explanation of this growing intimacy between the heir presumptive to a European throne, and the family of an American railroad king. It is whispered thatMiss Harmon, whose marriage has been the topic of the last two seasons, is not indifferent to the Prince, and that if the consent of the King can be obtained, the engagement of the young couple will be shortly announced."
"But perhaps the chief interest of the afternoon, apart from the charming young heroine, centred in a distinguished guest, Prince Sergius of Eurasia. His Royal Highness has been a frequent caller at the Harmon residence ever since Miss Harmon's return, and, as usual, gossip has been busy trying to find some plausible explanation of this growing intimacy between the heir presumptive to a European throne, and the family of an American railroad king. It is whispered thatMiss Harmon, whose marriage has been the topic of the last two seasons, is not indifferent to the Prince, and that if the consent of the King can be obtained, the engagement of the young couple will be shortly announced."
A lump rose in Armitage's throat. Calling for a cup of coffee, he lit his pipe and took up the paper again. After all, he thought philosophically, why should he care? The girl was lost to him, that was certain. He would never see her again. She was a bit of sunshine that had suddenly burst into his dark, unhappy life; and suddenly gone again, leaving the outlook blacker than ever. He knew it was hopeless. He loved her, would always love her. Time would make no difference. She would marry her prince and have long forgotten her adventure on the island, and still he, knocking alone about the world, would cherish her memory in his heart.
He did not blame her. It was different in her case. On the island, alone with him, she might in time have learned to care for him. They might have been happy together, far happier than she would ever be in her Eurasian palace. But when the spell was once broken, when she returned to New York and was once more absorbed in her fashionable life,it was only natural that she should speedily forget him.
He threw the newspaper down and, having settled his bill, was about to rise and leave, when suddenly his eye was arrested by an advertisement he saw in the paper which he had just put aside. Picking it up again, he read as follows:
Armitage: If John Armitage, second son of Sir William Armitage, of Alnwick Towers, Bucks, England, will communicate at once with the undersigned he will learn something to his advantage. Coxe and Willoughby, attorneys, 27 Broad Street, N. Y. City.
Armitage: If John Armitage, second son of Sir William Armitage, of Alnwick Towers, Bucks, England, will communicate at once with the undersigned he will learn something to his advantage. Coxe and Willoughby, attorneys, 27 Broad Street, N. Y. City.
His heart beating furiously, he read the advertisement over and over. John Armitage, second son of Sir William Armitage of Alnwick Towers, Bucks, England—what a familiar sound that had! Many long weary years had gone by since he had seen those names in print. What could have happened! Why should they want to communicate with him—the scapegrace of the family? He turned pale. Could his father be dead—the father who had cursed him and forbade him ever to appear before him again? Even if he were dead they would not send for him.His elder brother would succeed to the title and estates.
Letting the paper drop out of his hands, he rose and, leaving the place, walked along Third Avenue as if in a dream. Coxe and Willoughby, 27 Broad Street! Well, there was no harm in calling on them to see what they wanted. Their offices would be closed now, but he would go first thing in the morning. The dull roar of the city's tremendous traffic, the clanging of car-gongs, the hoarse cries of news vendors greeted him as he stemmed the tide of pushing humanity, men and women toilers—the day's work ended—all hurrying to trains and ferries. A wagon driven at reckless speed round a corner nearly knocked him down as he crossed a street. A fellow workman loafing at the entrance to a saloon jocularly invited him to enter and take a drink. But he paid no heed. He strode along, walking as on air, his thoughts far away.
The advertisement he had just read had taken him back fifteen years. He saw himself in England, just graduated from College, receiving the congratulations of his friends. He remembered his father'spride in his success and his kindly admonition to continue as he had begun, so that one day he might add even more distinction to the honorable name he bore. How had he followed that sage advice? No sooner released from the restraint of the University than he plunged into every form of dissipation, sowing his wild oats recklessly, blindly, utterly indifferent to the deadly crop they might one day yield. The corrupt, gay city beckoned to him, and he could not resist its pleasure-call. He scattered gold right and left on race-tracks, at cards, on women. A small inheritance turned over at his majority went speedily the way of all the rest, and then he went to the money-lenders to pay for further extravagances, incurring obligations he could not meet. Sir William, sorely disappointed, came to the rescue again and again, and, extracting a promise of reformation, made him enter Woolwich to try for a commission in the Army. Plucked at every examination, he was quickly discouraged, returned to his fast companions and gradually drifted into the aimless, loose way of living of the idle man-about-town. Debts accumulated, the creditors dunned and dogged his footstepsuntil life became unbearable. His father, incensed beyond hope of pardon, turned a deaf ear to further appeals, and finally cut off his allowance altogether, hoping to teach him a lesson. Soon his clothes got shabby, he was forced into cheap lodgings, his fair-weather friends forgot to bow to him.
That was the beginning of the end. He drifted lower and lower until he was forced to go to work or starve. He knew no trade. He was obliged to accept what he could get. He turned his hand to anything, often making barely enough to secure himself a night's lodging. Finally, when things seemed at their darkest, he heard there was a demand for stokers on the Blue Star Line. What he had suffered down there in that hell's furnace no man knew! The poor devils who had to do the work never survived to tell of their devilish toil. If these millionaires who liked to travel in fast ships knew the physical agony the vessel's speed cost a human being, they would refuse to patronize them. Thank God those days were over! No matter what happened, he would never go back to the stoke-hold.
That night as he lay on his cot in his Bowery lodging-house he tossed uneasily, unable to sleep, wondering what Coxe & Willoughby, Attorneys, of 27 Broad Street, wanted with him.
Broad Street, just before the stock-market begins its daily orgy of frenzied finance, is perhaps the most orderly and imposing of any of the splendid thoroughfares in New York's commercial center. Strange to say, it also fits its name, having almost three times the width of any other street in the down-town district. From the Wall Street end where the Sub-Treasury faces the old-fashioned premises of J. Pierpont Morgan & Co.'s banking-house, Broad Street sweeps round in a noble curve, lined on either side with stately office-buildings, rivaling each other in beauty of architectural design. The imposing building opposite ornamented with bas reliefs and noble marble columns is the Stock Exchange, where the unsophisticated lamb is ruthlessly sheared by bull and bear, and farther on, without other roof than the blue vault of heaven, are the noisy curb brokers, so called because, having no building of their own in which to transact their business, they are permitted by time-honoredcustom to trade in a roped-off enclosure in the middle of the street.
It was absolutely terra incognita to Armitage, and he gazed open-eyed around him like any country yokel seeing the sights of the city for the first time. Suddenly he saw a crowd of men engaged in what seemed to be a desperate struggle in the middle of the road. They were grappling with each other, brandishing their arms and fists, yelling like Indians. It looked like a riot of serious proportions, and he wondered why the policeman who stood close by calmly looking on viewed it with such unconcern.
"What's the matter?" he queried of a passer-by.
"Matter—where?" asked the stranger, looking in all directions.
"Don't you see those men fighting?" said Armitage.
The stranger grinned.
"Say, you're from Jersey, ain't you? That's no fight. They're curb brokers trying to unload on each other their mining stocks."
Armitage felt foolish. To hide his confusion he asked:
"Can you direct me to the offices of Coxe and Willoughby, the attorneys? I'm a stranger here."
The man pointed a little farther up the street.
"See that tall building on the left? That's it."
Thanking his informant Armitage hurried on, and, going up the stone steps of No. 27, passed through a revolving door kept whirling by an endless procession of brokers, clerks and messenger-boys who hurried in and out. Following a long corridor, he came to a large open space completely lined with elevators. Some were expresses which made no stop below the 25th floor; the rest were locals stopping at each story, on request.
"Coxe and Willoughby?" he said interrogatively to the uniformed starter.
"Twenty-seventh floor. Take the express," was the quick reply.
Armitage entered the waiting car. Other persons followed him in, and it was comfortably filled when the starter cried sharply:
"Right!"
Instantly the attendant closed the gates and touched a lever. Armitage felt his stomach leap intohis throat. They were flying upward at a speed of fifty miles an hour, and before he had time to gasp, the car had reached the first stop, nearly 300 feet up in the air. Two stories more and he had reached the floor he wanted.
"Along the corridor to your left, first door to the right," shouted the elevator man.
Armitage followed the handsome corridor with its marble walls, inlaid floors and hard-wood finishing until he came to a glass door on which was inscribed in bold black letters:
He opened the door, and found himself in an outer office in which behind a rail were two foppish-looking clerks seated at desks. Neither of them made an attempt to move when Armitage entered, but continued their animated discussion of a game of baseball they had witnessed the previous day. Armitage hit the rail lightly with his hand to attract their attention, and finally one of the clerks condescendedto get up and come and ask what the caller wanted.
"I wish to see a member of the firm," said Armitage.
The clerk looked him over from head to toe. He had been trained to judge people by their clothes, and there was something unconventional about Armitage's attire that appealed to his sense of humor. He turned to his fellow clerk and gave him the wink, whereupon the other laughed.
"In relation to what?" he demanded, wondering what possible business this ordinary workingman could have with his employer.
Armitage was puzzled for a moment as to how he should announce himself. Then an idea occurred to him. Taking from his pocket the advertisement which he had clipped from the paper the night before, he handed it to the clerk, saying:
"Say that a gentleman has called in answer to this advertisement."
"A 'gentleman,' did you say?" demanded the clerk insolently.
He looked first at the advertisement and then atArmitage. A look of blank astonishment which came over his face was succeeded by one of utter incredulity. Leaving the rail, he went over to his fellow clerk and whispered something to him, and they both snickered.
Armitage tried to be patient, but he was fast losing his temper. He did not like the clerk's supercilious manner. In another minute he would vault over that rail, and some one's head would get punched. Finally he said impatiently:
"Are you going to take that in to a member of the firm or must I do it myself?"
The clerk looked up, and he was about to make some impertinent retort when he suddenly thought better of it. There was a look in Armitage's eye that he did not like. Crossing the office, he disappeared through a glass door. A moment later he reappeared and, unfastening the rail gate, said in more respectful tones:
"Mr. Willoughby will see you at once, sir."
He ushered him into a spacious, well-lighted and handsomely furnished room. An elderly man of legal appearance was writing at a table littered withdocuments. He rose as Armitage entered, and courteously waved him to a chair. In his hand he held the advertisement, and while he twisted it nervously in his fingers he scrutinized his caller closely through his glasses.
"You wish to see me, Sir. What can I do for you?" he began.
"No," replied Armitage quickly. "You wished to see me. I came in answer to that advertisement."
The lawyer came nearer, and his scrutiny became keener.
"Oh, yes—I see. May I ask in what way this advertisement interests you?"
"Only that I'm John Armitage—that's all."
Mr. Willoughby started, and, taking out his handkerchief nervously, wiped his face. As much as any lawyer allows himself to show emotion, he betrayed surprise. He came still closer and, peering into his visitor's face, said:
"You?Youare John Armitage?"
He looked at his visitor's dress, noticed his clumsy thick-soled boots, soiled jacket and trousers, and he shook his head incredulously.
"The world's full of impostors," he muttered to himself, "but we lawyers are too much for them." Aloud he repeated: "Youare John Armitage?"
"Yes—I am John Armitage, formerly of Alnwick Tower, Bucks, England."
Hurrying back to his desk, the old lawyer opened a drawer and took from it a faded photograph. Holding it so that Armitage could not see it, he stood comparing the portrait with the living man before him.
"Same face!" he murmured. "Older—more serious expression, but same shaped head—same features." Aloud he added: "If, as you say, you are John Armitage, you have, of course, some way of identifying yourself. You see we have to be very careful."
Armitage laughed.
"I don't happen to have a passport," he said. "When I left England some fifteen years ago I didn't think I'd require one. But I've a mark on my left arm, a rough tattooing of the Armitage crest, which I did in my foolish boyhood days. And I have some letters which my mother wrote me after Ileft home. Those I've treasured. I let everything else go, but her letters I kept." Placing his hand over his heart, he added: "They're here."
As Mr. Willoughby grew more and more interested he became more and more nervous.
"Let me see them," he said impatiently.
Armitage opened his vest and drawing forth a small package of yellow-stained letters tied with a bit of ribbon, he handed them over.
"I guess we have no secrets from you," he said. "You may read them."
Mr. Willoughby untied the package, opened a letter and glanced hurriedly at the handwriting and signature. Then he handed them back.
"That's enough," he cried. "That's enough." Starting forward, he extended his hand.
"My dear Sir John—allow me to congratulate you!"
Armitage felt himself grow pale. He rose from his chair.
"You mean that my father——" he exclaimed.
The lawyer looked grave.
"Your father, Sir William, is dead——"
"But my elder brother, Charles?" stammered Armitage. "He succeeded to the title and estates—not I."
"Your brother Charles," replied the lawyer solemnly, "was killed in an automobile accident five years ago."
Armitage sank into a chair and burying his face in his hands burst into tears. That his father had died without forgiving him was bad enough, but that Charlie, his old pal, should have died years ago without his knowing it, was terrible!
"Poor Charlie! Poor Charlie!" he murmured.
"When your brother was dying," went on the lawyer, "he summoned your heart-broken father to his bedside and made him promise to forgive you, to make every effort to discover your whereabouts, and to make a will in your favor. They advertised for you in the London and colonial papers. We advertised for you in the American papers. We received no answer. And now your father has passed away. You are the sole heir. As the estates are entailed, you would have succeeded to the estates as a matter of course, but your father died forgiving you fullyand leaving you sufficient income to keep up the title. Sir John, I again congratulate you on succeeding to an old and honored title and an income of little less than $100,000 a year."
Armitage listened like a man who is dazed. It had all come so suddenly that he thought he must be dreaming.
"When did my father die—of what?" he asked in a low tone.
"Of heart failure—three weeks ago," was the rejoinder. "We've been trying to find you ever since. They followed you as far as the London docks, and then all trace of you was lost. Where have you been all these years?"
The lawyer noted his new client's sun-tanned face, and he looked askance at his workman's dress.
"Knocking about the world—trying to forget things," replied Armitage.
Mr. Willoughby shook his head as he said:
"Young men will do foolish things! Well, you've had your lesson. Perhaps you'll be a better man for the hard time you've had. The past is dead andforgotten. A bright future is before you. What do you propose to do now?"
Armitage seemed lost in thought.
"I don't know. I haven't had time to think."
"Have you any ties here? Are you married?"
Armitage smiled.
"No, who would have me—a pauper?"
Mr. Willoughby carefully adjusted his spectacles and said decisively:
"Well, then, you had better start for England at once and take possession of your property under the will and entail. There will be a number of legal formalities to go through. I will advise our London office that you are coming. This is Tuesday. Could you sail on theFloridanext Saturday?"
"I can," replied Armitage quickly.
The lawyer went to his desk and sat down to write. A moment later he returned with a piece of paper in his hand. Holding it out, he said:
"Of course you can't go dressed as you are. Here's a check for $1,000. It will pay your passage and your immediate needs. When you arrive in England, you can, of course, draw on our Londonoffice for all you want. You had better hurry now to book your passage and buy some clothes, and this evening if you have nothing else to do I shall be delighted if you'll dine with me at the Union League Club."
He touched a bell, and the supercilious clerk entered. By the sneer on his face, he evidently expected that he had been summoned to eject the rough-looking visitor. To his astonishment, he saw his employer shaking hands with him.
Mr. Willoughby accompanied Armitage into the outer office.
"Good-by, Sir John," he said cordially. "I'm delighted to have made your acquaintance. Don't forget to-night. Union League Club, at 7 o'clock."
The two clerks nearly swooned from amazement and consternation. As Armitage went down in the elevator he pinched himself to find out if he was awake.
When he emerged into Broad Street he was surprised to find how different everything looked to him. The world had suddenly taken on another aspect. The sunshine seemed brighter. Every manand woman he met seemed more amiable and friendly. The whole world seemed gayer, more joyous. He felt within him a strange novel sensation of exhilaration. His moodiness, his pessimism had disappeared. He felt imbued with new life and energy, as if he could go forth and conquer a world. From less than nothing to a title and $100,000 a year is a jump big enough to daze any man.
Suddenly he thought of Grace. If only he had received this news a few weeks before! Things might have been very different. Well, what was the use of torturing himself any longer? She was lost to him now—no matter how changed his circumstances and position.
He stood still, at the edge of the curb, irresolute, not knowing what to do next. Putting his hand in his pocket to feel if the check was still there, he drew it out to look at it. It was drawn on the Chemical Bank and payable to bearer. A thousand dollars! He had never seen so much money in his life. It was a question if they wouldn't arrest him as a suspicious character when he presented it for payment. However, there was no time to be lost. He must getthe check cashed at once, buy an outfit and secure his steamship passage.
After some difficulty he found the Chemical Bank, opposite the Post-Office. It was a splendid building with a lofty dome of stained glass, reminding him of a church. Making his way to the paying-teller's window, he handed in the check. The teller, a gaunt, keen-eyed man with spectacles, looked first at the check and then at Armitage. The latter's appearance did not seem to fit the amount of money the check called for, and a suspicious look came over his face. Eyeing the bearer severely, he demanded sternly:
"Where did you get this?"
"From the man who drew it, of course," replied Armitage coolly. "Let me have it in fifties and hundreds!"
Instead of complying with the request, the teller quickly touched an electric bell. It was evidently a signal, for instantly a special policeman attached to the Bank came up and took up a position near Armitage. He made no attempt to interfere, but just remained on hand in case he was wanted. Meantimethe teller was already in telephonic communication with Coxe and Willoughby.
"Is this Coxe and Willoughby?" asked the teller.
"This is Mr. Willoughby," came the answer.
"Have you drawn to-day a check for $1,000 payable to bearer?"
"I have."
"What does the bearer look like?"
"Tall, dark man, smooth face, dressed like a workingman. It's all right. Pay it at once. Good day."
That was enough. The teller returned to his little window. Dismissing the uniformed attendant, he turned to Armitage and in a tone as if he had never for a moment doubted the genuineness of the check, asked suavely:
"Fifties and hundreds, I think you said, Sir."
Rapidly counting out the bills, he passed them through the little opening and turned to attend to the next man on the line.
Armitage slowly folded up bills, a grim smile of satisfaction. He had enjoyed the situation hugely.
"Now for my steamship passage!" he muttered to himself.
Turning to the right as he re-entered Broadway, he walked about a mile in the direction of the Battery until he came to Bowling Green, where the steamship companies have their offices. Conspicuous on the left-hand side were the palatial offices of the Blue Star Line. As he went up the imposing stone steps leading to the passenger booking-rooms, he thought bitterly under what different conditions he had last visited these offices. Then it was to sign articles as stoker on theAtlanta.
He entered the room devoted exclusively to first cabin business, and a clerk, quick to notice his shabby appearance, spoke up impatiently:
"Can't you read? This is first cabin. Steerage and second cabin on the other side of the hall."
Armitage gave the clerk a look that made the latter wish he had left the caller alone.
"Who asked you for any information?" he demanded, pretending wrath he did not feel.
"This is only first class," repeated the clerk peevishly, but not without feeling some respect to his interlocutor's massive shoulders.
"I don't care whether it's first class or tenthclass," growled Armitage. "Let me see the plan of theFlorida."
The clerk gasped as he laid the plan before him.
"The lowest in this ship is $150 a berth—two in a room," he said, in a tone as if he expected this would quickly settle the matter.
"Two in a room—not for mine," said Armitage jovially. "I want something comfortable. How's this?" he added, pointing to a berth.
"Single berth room—$400," said the clerk blandly.
"I'll take it," replied the new passenger. Peeling off four 100-dollar bills from the bank-roll, he threw them before the astonished clerk.
"What name, sir?" he asked, more respectfully.
"Sir John Armitage."
The clerk's hand shook so with surprise and nervousness that he dropped the book-plan on the floor.
Leaving the steamship offices, Armitage proceeded along Broadway, chuckling. How sweet was the power of money! Now he would be able to wield this power, to enslave men as they had enslaved him. Yet in the midst of this new-found joy, he knew there was something still lacking. He was hauntedby a pair of dark eyes, lips that had trembled with passion he alone had awakened. What good was his money, his new-found power, if it would not give him the woman he wanted. Engaged to that spendthrift princeling, she was entirely lost to him. She had sold herself, and he tried to persuade himself that he despised her for it.
Yet how could he go away without saying good-by? It was different when everything looked hopeless, when his social standing was immeasurably beneath hers. He would never have subjected himself to a snub, and he had avoided her for that reason. He knew it would pain her to snub him, yet she would be compelled to do so. It would only have meant more suffering for him. But now it was different. He was more than her equal socially. In fact, he was her social superior. He could not go away without saying good-by. There could never be anything between them. She was going to marry the other fellow and satisfy her ambition to be a member of a royal house. Yet for all that they were still good friends.
He wondered how he could see her. The bestway probably was to write her a letter, telling her he was sailing immediately and asking for an interview. He would say nothing about his accession to the title, but just that his condition had changed for the better. This revealed nothing, and yet would account for his better clothes and possession of funds.
A firm of ready-made clothiers speedily fitted him with a neat business suit and furnished all the other things he required. When the transformation was complete with a clean shave and hair cut, he did not recognize himself in the mirror.
That night he took rooms at the Waldorf, and after enjoying a good dinner with Mr. Willoughby at the Union League Club, he returned to the hotel, sitting down in the reading-room, he wrote Grace a letter.
New York City, Tuesday.