VII
He knew, generally, where Alexander Crandall’s farm lay; and, shortly after, drove through the village and mounted the road over which plied the Stenton stage. In the Bottom, beyond the east range, he went to the right and passed over an ill-defined way with numerous and deep fords. It was afternoon; an even, sullen expanse of cloud hid the deeps of sky through which the sun moved like a newly-minted silver dollar. A sharp wind drew through the opening; the fallen leaves rose from the road in sudden, agitated whirling; the gaunt branches, printed sharply on the curtain of cloud, revealed the deserted nests of past springs.
He drove by solitary farms, their acres lying open and dead among the brush; and stopped, undecided, before a fenced clearing that swept back to the abrupt wall of the range, against which a low house was scarcely distinguishable from the sere, rocky ascent. Finally he drove in, over a faintly marked track, past a corner of the fence railed about a trough for sheep shearing, to the house. A pine tree stood at either side of the large, uncut stone at the threshold; except for a massive exterior chimney the somberly painted frame structure was without noticeable feature.
He discovered immediately from the youthful feminine figure awaiting him at the door that he was not at fault. Mrs. Crandall’s face radiated her pleasure.
“Mr. Makimmon!” she cried; “there’s just no one we’d rather see than you. Step right out, and Alexander’ll take your horse. He’s only at the back of the house.... Alec!” she called; “Alec, what do you suppose?—here’s Mr. Makimmon.”
Alexander Crandall quickly appeared, in a hide apron covered with curlings of wood. A slight concern was visible upon his countenance, as though he expected at any moment to see revealed the “string” of which his brother had spoken.
Gordon adequately met his salutation, and turned to the woman. He saw now that she was more mature than Lettice: the mouth before him, although young and red, was bitten in at the corners; already the eyes gazed through a shadow of care; the capable hands were rough and discolored from toil and astringent soaps.
“Come in, come in,” Crandall urged, striving to banish the sudden anxiety from his voice.
“And you go right around, Alec,” his wife added, “and twist the head off that dominicker chicken. Pick some flat beans too, there’s a mess still hanging on the poles. Go in, Mr. Makimmon.”
He was ushered into the ceremonious, barely-furnished, best room. There was a small rag carpet at the door, with an archaic, woven animal, and at its feet an unsteady legend, “Mary’s Little Lamb”; but the floor was uncovered, and the walls, sealed in resinous pine, the pine ceiling, gave the effect, singular and depressing, of standing inside a huge box.
“It’s mortal cold here,” Mrs. Crandall truthfully observed; “the grate’s broken. If you wouldn’t mind going out into the kitchen—”
In the kitchen, from a comfortable place by the fire, Gordon watched her deft preparations for an early supper. Crandall appeared with the picked dominicker, and sat rigidly before his guest.
“I don’t quite make out,” he at last essayed, “how you expect your money, what you want out of it.”
“I don’t want anything out of it,” Gordon replied with an almost bitter vigor; “leastways not any premium. I said you could pay me when you liked. I’ll deed you the farm, and we’ll draw up a paper to suit—to suit crops.”
The apprehension in Alexander Crandall’s face turned to perplexed relief. “I don’t understand,” he admitted; “but I haven’t got to. It’s enough to know that you pulled us out of ruination. Things will come right along now; we can see light; I’m extending the sheep-cots twice.”
Supper at an end he too launched upon the lack of opportunity in Greenstream. “Some day,” he asserted, “and not so far off either, we’ll shake off the grip of these blood-money men; we’ll have a state lawed bank; a rate of interest a man can carry without breaking his back. There’s no better land than the Bottom, or the higher clearings for grazing ... it’s the men, some of ’em....”
VIII
It was dark when Gordon closed the stable door and turned to his dwelling. A light streamed from a chink in the closed kitchen shutter like a gold arrow shot into the night. From within came the long-drawn quaver of William Vibard’s performance of the Arkansas Traveller. He was sitting bowed over the accordion, his jaw dropped, his eyes glazed with the intoxication of his obsession. Rose was rigidly upright in a straight chair, her hands crossed at the wrists in her meager lap.
The fluctuating, lamentable sounds of the instrument, Rose’s expression of conscious virtue, were suddenly petty, exasperating; and Gordon, after a short acknowledgment of their greeting, proceeded through the house to the sitting room beyond.
No fire had been laid in the small, air-tight stove; the room had a closed, musty smell, and was more chill than the night without; his breath hung before him in a white vapor. Soon he had wood burning explosively, the stove grew rapidly red hot and the chill vanished. He saw beyond the lamp with its shade of minute, variously-colored silks the effigy of Mrs. Hollidew dead. Undisturbed in the film of dust that overlaid the table stood a pink celluloid thimble ... Lettice had placed it there....
His thoughts turned to Alexander Crandall and his wife, to the extended sheep-cots, and the “light” which they now saw. He recalled the former’s assertion that the land was all right, but that the blood-money men made life arduous in Greenstream. He remembered Edgar Crandall’s arraignment of the County as “the littlest, meanest place on earth,” a place where a man who wanted his own, his chance, was helpless to survive the avarice of a few individuals, the avarice for gold. He had asked him, Gordon Makimmon, to give him that chance. But, obviously, it was impossible ... absurd.
His memory drifted back to the evening in the store when Valentine Simmons had abruptly demanded payment of his neglected account, to the hopeless rage that had possessed him at the realization of his impotence, of Clare’s illness. That scene, that bitter realization of ruin, had been repeated across the breadth of Greenstream. As a boy he had heard men in shaking tones curse Pompey Hollidew; only last week the red-headed Crandall had sworn he would let his ground rot rather than slave for the breed of Cannon. It was, apparently, a perpetual evil, an endless burden for the shoulders of men momentarily forgetful or caught in a trap of circumstance.
Yet he had, without effort, without deprivation, freed Alexander Crandall. He could have freed his brother, given him the chance his rebellious soul demanded, with equal ease. He had not done that last, he had said at the time, because of the numbers that would immediately besiege him for assistance. This, he realized, was not a valid objection—the money was his to dispose of as he saw fit. He possessed large sums lying at the Stenton banks, automatically returning him interest, profit; thrown in the scale their weight would go far toward balancing the greed of Valentine Simmons, of Cannon.
He considered these facts totally ignorant of the fact that they were but the reflection of his own inchoate need born in the anguish of his wife’s death; he was not conscious of the veering of his sensibility—sharpened by the hoarse cry from the stiffening lips of Lettice—to the world without. He thought of the possibility before him neither as a scheme of philanthropy nor of revenge, nor of rehabilitation. He considered it solely in the light of his own experience, as a practical measure to give men their chance, their own, in Greenstream. The cost to himself would be small—his money had faded from his conceptions, his necessities, as absolutely as though it had been fairy gold dissolved by the touch of a magic wand. He had never realized its potentiality; lately he had ignored it with the contempt of supreme indifference. Now an actual employment for it occupied his mind.
The stove glowed with calorific energy; General Jackson, who had been lying at his feet, moved farther away. The lamplight grew faint and reddish, and then expired, trailing a thin, penetrating odor. In the dark the heated cylinder of the stove shone rosy, mysterious.
Gordon Makimmon was unaware of his own need; yet, at the anticipation of the vigorous course certain to follow a decision to use his money in opposition to the old, established, rapacious greed, he was conscious of a sudden tightening of his mental and physical fibers. The belligerent blood carried by George Gordon Makimmon from world-old wars, from the endless strife of bitter and rugged men in high, austere places, stirred once more through his relaxed and rusting being.
He thought, aglow like the stove, of the struggle that would follow such a determination, a struggle with the pink fox, Valentine Simmons. He thought of himself as an equal with the other; for, if Simmons were practised in cunning, if Simmons were deep, he, Gordon Makimmon, would have no necessity for circuitous dealing; his course would be simple, unmistakable.—He would lend money at, say, three per cent, grant extensions of time wherever necessary, and knock the bottom out of the storekeepers’ usurious monopoly, drag the farms out of Cannon’s grasping fingers.
“By God!” he exclaimed, erect in the dark; “but Edgar Crandall will get his apples.”
The dog licked his hand, faithful, uncomprehending.
IX
On an afternoon of mid-August Gordon was sitting in the chamber of his dwelling that had been formerly used as dining room. The table was bare of the castor and the red cloth, and held an inkpot, pens upright in a glass of shot, and torn envelopes on an old blotter. An iron safe stood against the wall at Gordon’s back, and above it hung a large calendar, advertising the Stenton Realty and Trust Company.
A sudden gloom swept over the room, and Gordon rose, proceeded to the door. A bank of purple cloud swept above the west range, opened in the sky like a gigantic, menacing fist; the greenery of the valley was overcast, and a white flash of lightning, accompanied by a shattering peal of thunder, stabbed viciously at the earth. There was no rain. An edge of serene light followed in the west a band of saffron radiance that widened until the cloud had vanished beyond the eastern peaks. The sultry heat lay like a blanket over Greenstream.
He turned back into the room, but, as he moved, he was aware of a figure at the porch door. It was a man with a round, freshly-colored countenance, bland eyes, and a limp mustache, clad in leather boots and a worn corduroy gunning coat. Gordon nodded familiarly; it was the younger Entriken from the valley beyond.
“I came to see you about my note,” he announced in a facile candor; “I sh’d take it up this month, but times are terrible bad, Gordon, and I wondered if you’d give me another extension? There’s no real reason why you sh’d wait again; I reckon I could make her, but it would certainly be accommodating—” he paused interrogatively.
“Well,” Gordon hesitated, “I’m not in a hurry for the note, if it comes to that. But the fact is ... I’ve got a lot of money laid out. What’s been the matter?—the weather has been good, it’s rained regular—”
“That’s just it,” Entriken interrupted; “it’s rained too blamed regular. It is all right for crops, but we’ve got nothing besides cattle, and steers wouldn’t hardly put on anything the past weeks. Of course, in a way, grass is cattle, but it just seems they wouldn’t take any good in the wet.”
“I suppose it will be all right,” Gordon Makimmon assented; “but I can hardly have the money out so long ... others too.”
X
The heat thickened with the dusk. The wailing clamor of William Vibard’s accordion rose from the porch. He had, of late, avoided sitting with Rose and her husband; they irritated him in countless, insignificant ways. Rose’s superiority had risen above the commonplace details of the house; she sat on the porch and regarded Gordon with a strained, rigid smile. After a pretense at procuring work William Vibard had relapsed into an endless debauch of sound. His manner became increasingly abstracted; he ate, he lived, with the gestures of a man playing an accordion.
The lines on Gordon’s thin, dark face had multiplied; his eyes, in the shadow of his bony forehead, burned steady, pale blue; his chin was resolute; but a new doubt, a constant, faint perplexity, blurred the line of his mouth.
From the road above came the familiar sound of hoof-beats, muffled in dust, but it stopped opposite his dwelling; and, soon after, the porch creaked under slow, heavy feet, and a thick, black-clad figure knocked and entered.
It was the priest, Merlier.
In the past months Gordon had been conscious of an increasing concord with the silent clerical. He vaguely felt in the other’s isolation the wreckage of an old catastrophe, a loneliness not unlike his, Gordon Makimmon’s, who had killed his wife and their child.
“The Nickles,” the priest pronounced, sudden and harsh, “are worthless, woman and man. They would be bad if they were better; as it is they are only a drunken charge on charity and the church. They have been stewed in whiskey now for a month. They make nothing amongst their weeds.—Is it possible they got a sum from you?”
“Six weeks back,” Gordon replied briefly; “two hundred dollars to put a floor on the bare earth and stop a leaking roof.”
“Lies,” Merlier commented. “When any one in my church is deserving I will tell you myself. I think of an old woman now, but ten dollars would be a fortune.” Silence fell upon them. Then:
“Charity is commanded,” he proceeded, “but out of the hands of authority it is a difficult and treacherous virtue. The people are without comprehension,” he made a gesture of contempt.
“With age,” the deliberate voice went on, “the soul grows restless and moves in strange directions, struggling to throw off the burden of flesh. But I that know tell you,” Merlier paused at the door, “the charity of material benevolence, of gold, will cure no spiritual sores; for spirit is eternal, but the flesh is only so much dung.” He stopped abruptly, coughed, as though he had carried his utterance beyond propriety. “The Nickles,” he repeated somberly, “are worthless; they make trouble in my parish; with money they make more.”
XI
The year, in the immemorial, minute shifting of season, grew brittle and cold; the dusk fell sooner and night lingered late into morning.
William Vibard moved with his accordion from the porch to beside the kitchen stove. He was in the throes of a new piece, McGinty, and Gordon Makimmon was correspondingly surprised when, as he was intent upon some papers, Rose’s husband voluntarily relinquished his instrument, and sat in the room with him.
“What’s the matter,” Gordon indifferently inquired; “is she busted?”
William Vibard indignantly repudiated that possibility. A wave of purpose rose to the long, corrugated countenance, but sank, without finding expression in speech. Finally Gordon heard Rose calling her husband. That young man twitched in his chair, but he made no other move, no answer. Her voice rose again, sharp and urgent, and Gordon observed:
“Your wife’s a-calling.”
“I heard her, but I’d ruther sit right where I am.”
She appeared in the doorway, flushed and angry.
“William,” she commanded, “you come straight out here to the kitchen. I got a question for you.”
“I’ll stay just where I am for a spell,” he replied, avoiding her gaze.
“You do as I tell you right off.”
A stubborn expression settled over his face and shoulders. He made her no further reply. Rose’s anger gathered in a tempest that she tried in vain to restrain.
“William,” she demanded, “where is it? It’s gone, you know what.”
“I ain’t seen it,” he answered finally; “I really ain’t, Rose.”
“That’s a story, only you knew. Come out here.”
“Get along,” Gordon interrupted testily. “How can I figure in this ruction?”
“I ain’t agoing a step,” William told them both; “I’m going to stop right here with Uncle Gordon.”
“Well, then,” the latter insisted, “get it through with—what is it?”
“I’ll tell you what it is,” William Vibard stammered; “it’s a hundred and forty dollars Rose held out on you and kept in a drawer, that’s what!”
Rose’s emotion changed to a crimson consternation.
“Why, William Vibard! what an awful thing to say. What little money I had put by was saved from years. What a thing to say about me and Uncle Gordon.”
“’Tain’t no such thing you saved it; you held it out on him, dollars at a time. You didn’t have no more right to it than I did.”
Gordon’s gaze centered keenly upon his niece’s hot face. She endeavored to sustain, refute, the accusation successfully; but her valor wavered, broke. She disappeared abruptly. He surveyed Vibard without pleasure.
“You’re a ramshackle contraption,” he observed crisply.
“I got as good a right to it as her,” the other repeated.
“A hundred and forty dollars,” Gordon said bitterly; “that’s a small business. Well, where is it? Have you got it?”
“No, I ain’t,” William exploded.
“Well—?”
“You can’t never tell what might happen,” the young man observed enigmatically; “the bellowses wear out dreadful quick, the keys work loose like, and then they might stop making them. It’s the best one on the market.”
“What scrabble’s this? What did you do with the money?”
“They’re in the stable,” William Vibard answered more obscurely than before. “With good treatment they ought to last a life. They come cheaper too like that.”
Gordon relinquished all hope of extracting any meaning from the other’s elliptical speech. He rose. “If ‘they’re’ in the stable,” he announced, “I’ll soon have some sense out of you.” He procured a lantern, and tramped shortly to the stable, closely followed by Rose’s husband.
“Now!” he exclaimed, loosening the hasp of the door, throwing it open.
The former entered and bent over a heap in an obscure corner. When he rose the lantern shone on two orderly piles of glossy black paper boxes. Gordon strode across the contracted space and wrenched off a lid.... Within reposed a brand new accordion. There were nine others.
“You see,” William eagerly interposed; “now I’m fixed good.”
At the sight of the grotesque waste a swift resentment moved Gordon Makimmon—it was a mockery of his money’s use, a gibing at his capability, his planning. The petty treachery of Rose added its injury. He pitched the box in his hands upon the clay floor, and the accordion fell out, quivering like a live thing.
“Hey!” William Vibard remonstrated; “don’t do like that ... delicate—” He knelt, with an expression of concern, and, tenderly fingering the instrument, replaced it in the box.
Gordon turned sharply and returned to the house. Rose was in her room. He could hear her moving rapidly about, pulling at the bureau drawers. Depression settled upon him; he carried the lantern into the bedroom, where he sat bowed, troubled. He was aroused finally by the faint strains of William’s latest melodic effort drifting discreetly from the stable.
The next morning the Vibards departed. Rose was silent, her face, red and swollen, was vindictive. On the back of the vehicle that conveyed them to the parental Berrys was securely tied the square bundle that had “fixed good” William Vibard musically for life.
XII
Gordon Makimmon, absorbed in the difficult and elusive calculations of his indefinable project was unaware of the change wrought by their departure, of the shifting of the year, the familiar acts and living about him. He looked up abruptly from the road when Valentine Simmons, upon the platform of the store, arrested his progress homeward.
Simmons’ voice was high and shrill, as though time had tightened and dried his vocal cords; his cheeks were still round and pink, but they were sapless, the color lingered like a film of desiccated paint.
The store remained unchanged: Sampson, the clerk, had gone, but another, identical in shirt sleeves upheld by bowed elastics, was brushing the counters with a turkey wing; the merchandise on the shelves, unloaded from the slow procession of capacious mountain wagons, flowed in endless, unvaried stream to the scattered, upland homes.
Valentine Simmons took his familiar place in the glass enclosure, revolving his chair to fix on Gordon a birdlike attention.
“As an old friend,” he declared, “an old Presbyterian friend, I want to lay some of my experience before you. I want to complain a little, Gordon; I have the right ... my years, Pompey’s associate. The fact is—you’re hurting the County, you’re hurting the people and me; you’re hurting yourself. Everybody is suffering from your—your mistaken generosity. We have all become out of sorts, unbalanced, from the exceptional condition you have brought about. It won’t do, Gordon; credit has been upset, we don’t know where we stand, or who’s who; it’s bad.
“I said you suffered with the rest of us, but you are worse off still. How shall I put it?—the County is taking sad advantage of your, er—liberality. There’s young Entriken; he was in the store a little time ago and told me that you had extended his note again. He thought it was smart to hold out the money on you. There’s not a likelier farm, nor better conditioned cattle, than his in Greenstream. He could pay twenty notes like yours in a day’s time. I hate to see money cheapened like that, it ain’t healthy.
“What is it you’re after, Gordon? Is it at the incorruptible, the heavenly, treasure you’re aiming? But if it is I’ll venture this—that the Lord doesn’t love a fool. And the man with the talents, don’t overlook him.”
“I’m not aiming at anything,” Gordon answered, “I’m just doing.”
“And there’s that Hagan that got five thousand from you, it’s an open fact about him. He came from the other end of the state, clear from Norfolk, to get a slice. He gave you the address, the employment, of a kin in Greenstream and left for parts unknown. No, no, the Lord doesn’t love a fool.”
“I may be a fool as you see me,” Gordon contended stubbornly; “and the few liars that get my money may laugh. But there’s this, there’s this, Simmons—I’m not cursed by the dispossessed and the ailing and the plumb penniless. I don’t go to a man with his crop a failure on the field like, well—we’ll say, Cannon does, with a note in my hand for his breath. I’ve put a good few out of—of Cannon’s reach. Did you forget that I know how it feels to hear Ed Hincle, on the Courthouse steps, call out my place for debt? Did you forget that I sat in this office while you talked of old Presbyterian friends and sold me into the street?”
“Incorrigible,” Valentine Simmons said, “incorrigible; no sense of responsibility. I had hoped Pompey’s estate would bring some out in you. But I should have known—it’s the Makimmon blood; you are the son of your father. I knew your grandfather too, a man that fairly insulted opportunity.”
“We’ve never been storekeepers.”
“Never kept much of anything, have you, any of you? You can call it what you’ve a mind to, liberality or shiftlessness. But there’s nothing saved by names. There: it seems as if you never got civilized, always contemptuous and violent-handed ... it’s the blood. I’ve studied considerable about you lately; something’ll have to be done for the good of all.”
“What is it you want of me?”
“Call in your bad debts,” the other promptly responded; “shake off the worthless lot hanging to your pocket. Put the money rate back where it belongs. Why, in days gone by,” Valentine Simmons chuckled, “seventy per cent wasn’t out of the way for a forced loan, forty was just so-so. Ah, Pompey and me made some close deals. Pompey multiplied his talents. The County was an open ledger to him.”
“Didn’t you ever think of the men who had to pay you seventy per cent?” Gordon asked, genuinely curious.
“Certainly,” Simmons retorted; “we educated them, taught ’em thrift. While you are promoting idleness and loose-living.... But this is only an opening for what I wanted to say.—I had a letter last week from the Tennessee and Northern people, the Buffalo plan has matured, they’re pushing the construction right along.”
“I intended to come to you about that.”
“Well?”
“I ain’t going on with our agreement.”
Simmons’ face exhibited not a trace of concern.
“I may say,” he returned smoothly, “that I am not completely surprised. I have been looking for something of the kind. I must remind you that our partnership is a legal and binding instrument; you can’t break it, nor throw aside your responsibility, with a few words. It will be an expensive business for you.”
“I’m willing to pay with what I’ve got.”
The other held up a palm in his familiar, arresting gesture. “Nothing of that magnitude; nothing out of the way; I only wanted to remind you that a compensation should follow your decision. It puts me in a very nice position indeed. I gather from your refusal to continue the partnership that you do not intend to execute singly the original plan; it is possible that you will not hold the options against the coming of transportation.”
“You’ve got her,” Gordon declared; “I’m not going to profit seventy times over, tie up all that timber, from the ignorance of men that ought to rightly advantage from it. I—I—” Gordon rose to his feet in the harassing obscurity of his need; “I don’t want to make! I don’t want to take anything ... never again! I want—”
“You forget, unfortunately, that I am forced to be accessory to your—your change of heart. I may say that I shall have to pay dearly for your—your eleventh hour conversion. Timber will be—unsteady.”
“Didn’t you mention getting something out of it?”
“A mere detail to my effort, my time. What my timber will be worth, with what you throw on the market hawking up and down ... problematic.”
Gordon Makimmon hesitated, a plan forming vaguely, painfully, in his mind. Finally, “I might buy you out,” he suggested; “if you didn’t ask too dam’ much. Then I could do as I pleased with the whole lot.”
“Now that,” Valentine Simmons admitted, dryly cordial, “is a plan worth consideration. We might agree on a price, a low price to an old partner. You met the Company’s agents, heard the agreement outlined; a solid proposal. And, as you say, with the timber control in your own hands, you could arrange as you pleased with the people concerned.”
He grew silent, enveloped in thought. Then:
“I’ll take a hundred thousand for all the options I bought, for my interest in the partnership.”
“I don’t know as I could manage that,” Gordon admitted.
An unassumed astonishment marked the other’s countenance. “Why!” he ejaculated, “Pompey left an estate estimated at—” he stopped from sheer surprise.
“Some of the investments went bad,” Gordon continued; “down in Stenton they said I didn’t move ’em fast enough. Then the old man had a lot laid out in ways I don’t hold with, with people I wouldn’t collect from. And it’s a fact a big amount’s got out here lately. Of course it will come back, the most part.”
Simmons’ expression grew skeptical.
“I know you too,” Gordon added; “you’ll want the price in your hand.”
“I’m getting on,” the storekeeper admitted; “I can’t wait now.”
“I don’t know if I can make it,” Gordon repeated; “it’ll strip me if I do.”
Valentine Simmons swung back to his desk. “At least,” he observed, “keep this quiet till something’s settled.”
Gordon agreed.
XIII
Even if he proved able to buy out Simmons, he thought walking home, it would be a delicate operation to return the timber rights to where he thought they belonged. He considered the possibility of making a gift of the options to the men from whom they had been wrongfully obtained. But something of Simmons’ shrewd knowledge of the world, something of the priest’s contemptuous arraignment of material values, lingering in Gordon’s mind, convinced him of the potential folly of that course. It would be more practical to sell back the options to those from which they had been purchased at the nominal prices paid. He had only a vague idea of his balances at the Stenton banks, the possibilities of the investments from which he received profit. He was certain, however, that the sum asked by Valentine Simmons would obliterate his present resources. Yet he was forced to admit that it did not seem exorbitant.
He continued his altruistic deliberations throughout the evening at his dwelling. It might be well, before investing such a paramount sum, to communicate with the Tennessee and Northern Company, receive a fresh ratification of their intention. Yet he could not do that without incurring the danger of premature questioning, investigation. It was patent that he would have to be prepared to make an immediate distribution of the options when his intention became known in Greenstream. He was aware that when the coming of a railroad to the County became common knowledge the excitement of the valley would grow intense.
Again, it might be better first to organize the timber of Greenstream, so that a harmonious local condition would facilitate all negotiations, and avert the danger, which Valentine Simmons had pointed out, of individual blindness and competition. But, in order to accomplish that, he would have to bring into concord fifty or more wary, suspicious, and largely ignorant adults. He would have to deal with swift and secret avarice, with vain golden dreams born of years of bitter poverty, privation, ceaseless and incredible toil. The magnitude of the latter task appalled him; fact and figure whirled in his confused mind. He was standing, and he suddenly felt dizzy, and sat down. The giddiness vanished, but left him with twitching fingers, a clouded vision. He might get them all together, explain, persuade.... Goddy! it was for their good. They needn’t be cross-grained. There it would be, the offer, for them to take or leave. But, if they delayed, watch out! Railroad people couldn’t be fooled with. They might get left; that was all.
This, he felt, was more than he could undertake, more than any reasonable person would ask. If he paid Valentine Simmons all that money, and then let them have back their own again, without a cent to himself, they must be content. They should be able to bargain as well as he—who was getting on and had difficulty in adding figures to the same amount twice—with the Tennessee and Northern.
The following morning he departed for Stenton.
XIV
Gordon paid Valentine Simmons eighty-nine thousand dollars for the latter’s share of the timber options they had held in common. They were seated in the room in which Gordon conducted his peculiar transactions. He turned and placed Simmons’ acknowledgment, the various papers of the dissolved partnership, in the safe.
“That finishes all I had in Stenton,” he observed.
Valentine Simmons made no immediate reply. He was intent, with tightly-folded lips, on the cheque in his hand. His shirt, as ever, was immaculately starched, the blue button was childlike, bland; but it was cold without, and hot in the room where they sat, and the color on his cheeks resembled dabs of vermilion on buffers of old white leather; the tufts of hair above his ears had dwindled to mere cottony scraps.
“Prompt and satisfactory,” he said at last. “I tell you, Gordon, you can see as far as another into a transaction. Promises are of no account but value received ...” he held up the cheque, a strip of pale orange paper, pinched between withered fingers.
Suddenly he was in a hurry to get away; he drew his overcoat of close-haired, brown hide about his narrow shoulders, and trotted to the door, to his buggy awaiting him at the corner of the porch.
XV
Gordon placed on the table before him the statements and accounts of his newly-augmented options. The papers, to his clerical inefficiency, presented a bewildering mass of inexplicable details and accounts. He brought them, with vast difficulty, into a rough order. In the lists of the acreages of timber controlled there were appended none of the names of those from whom his privilege of option had been obtained, no note of the slightly-varying sums paid—the sole, paramount facts to Gordon now. For the establishment of these he was obliged to refer to the original, individual contracts, to compare and add and check off.
Old Pompey had conducted his transactions largely from his buggy, lending them a speciously casual aspect. The options made to him were written on slips of paper hastily torn from a cheap note book, engrossed on yellowing sheets of foolscap in tremulous Spencerian. Their wording was informal, often strictly local. One granted privilege of purchase of, “The piney trees on Pap’s and mine but not Henny’s for nineteen years.” Another bore, above the date, “In this year of Jesus Christ’s holy redemption.”
The sales made to Valentine Simmons were, invariably, formal in record, the signatures were all witnessed.
It was a slow, fatiguing process. A number of the original vendors, Gordon knew, had died, their families were scattered; others had removed from the County; logical substitutes had to be evolved. The mere comparison of the various entries, the tracing of the tracts to the amounts involved, was scarcely within Gordon’s ability.
He labored through the swiftly-falling dusk into the night, and took up the task early the following morning. A large part of the work had to be done a second, third, time—his brain, unaccustomed to concentrated mental processes, soon grew weary; he repeated aloud a fact of figures without the least comprehension of the sounds formed by his lips, and he would say them again and again, until he had forced into his blurring mind some significance, some connection.
He would fall asleep over his table, his scattered papers, in the grey daylight, or in the radiance of a large glass lamp, and stay immobile for hours, while his dog lay at his feet, or, uneasy, nosed his sharp, relaxed knees.
No one would seek him, enter his house, break his exhausted slumbers. Lying on an outflung arm his head with its sunken, closed eyes, loose lips, seemed hardly more alive than the photographed clay of Mrs. Hollidew in the sitting room. He would wake slowly, confused; the dog would lick his inert hand, and they would go together in search of food to the kitchen.
On the occasions when he was forced to go to the post-office, the store, he went hurriedly, secretively, in a coat as green, as aged, as Pompey’s own.
He was anxious to finish his labor, to be released from its responsibility, its weight. It appeared tremendously difficult to consummate; it had developed far beyond his expectation, his original conception. The thought pursued him that some needy individual would be overlooked, his claim neglected. No one must be defrauded; all, all, must have their own, must have their chance. He, Gordon Makimmon, was seeing that they had, with Lettice’s money ... because ... because....
The leaves had been swept from the trees; the mountains were gaunt, rocky, against swift, low clouds. There was no sunlight except for a brief, sullen red fire in the west at the end of day. At night the winds blew bleakly down Greenstream valley. Shutters were locked, shades drawn, in the village; night obliterated it absolutely. No one passed, after dark, on the road above.
He seemed to be toiling alone at a hopeless, interminable task isolated in the midst of a vast, uninhabited desolation, in a black chasm filled with the sound of whirling leaves and threshing branches.
The morning, breaking late and grey and cold, appeared equally difficult, barren, in vain. The kitchen stove, continually neglected, went continually out, the grate became clogged with ashes, the chimney refused to draw. He relit it, on his knees, the dog patiently at his side; he fanned the kindling into flames, poured on the coal, the shining black dust coruscating in instant, gold tracery. He bedded the horse more warmly, fed him in a species of mechanical, inattentive regularity.
Finally the list of timber options he possessed was completed with the names of their original owners and the amounts for which they had been bought. A deep sense of satisfaction, of accomplishment, took the place of his late anxiety. Even the weather changed, became complacent—the valley was filled with the blue mirage of Indian summer, the apparent return of a warm, beneficent season. The decline of the year seemed to halt, relent, in still, sunny hours. It was as though nature, death, decay, had been arrested, set at naught; that man might dwell forever amid peaceful memories, slumberous vistas, lost in that valley hidden by shimmering veils from all the implacable forces that bring the alternation of cause and effect upon subservient worlds and men.
XVI
As customary on Saturday noon Gordon found his copy of the weeklyBugleprojecting from his numbered compartment at the post-office. There were no letters. He thrust the paper into his pocket, and returned to the village street. The day was warm, but the mists that had enveloped the peaks were dissolving, the sky was sparkling, clear. By evening, Gordon decided, it would be cold again, and then the long, rigorous winter would close upon the valley and mountains.
He looked forward to it with relief, as a period of somnolence and prolonged rest—the mental stress and labor of the past days had wearied him of the active contact with men and events. He was glad that they were, practically, solved, at an end—the towering columns of figures, the perplexing problems of equity, the far-reaching decisions.
In rehearsing his course it seemed impossible to have hit upon a better, a more comprehensive, plan. There was hardly a family he knew of in the valley of which some member might not now have his chance. That, an opportunity for all, was what Gordon was providing.
A number of horses were already hitched along the rail outside Valentine Simmons’ store; soon the rail would hardly afford room for another animal. He passed the Presbyterian Church, Dr. Pelliter’s drugstore and dwelling, and approached his home. Seen from the road the long roof was variously colored from various additions; there were regions of rusty tar-paper, of tin with blistered remnants of dull red paint, of dark, irregular shingling.
It was a dwelling weather-beaten and worn, the latest addition already discolored by the elements, blended with the nondescript whole. It was like himself, Gordon Makimmon recognized; in him, as in the house below, things tedious or terrible had happened, the echoes of which lingered within the old walls, within his brain.... Now it was good that winter was coming, when they would lie through the long nights folded in snow, in beneficent quietude.
There were some final details to complete in his papers. He took off his overcoat, laid it upon the safe, and flung theBugleon the table, where it fell half open and neglected. The names traced by his scratching pen brought clearly before him the individuals designated: Elias Wellbogast had a long, tangled grey beard and a gaze that peered anxiously through a settling blindness. Thirty acres—eight dollars an acre. P. Ville was a swarthy foreigner, called, in Greenstream, the Portugee; every crop he planted grew as if by magic. Old Matthew Zane would endeavor to borrow from Gordon the money with which to repurchase the option he had granted.
He worked steadily, while the rectangles of sunlight cast through the windows on the floor shortened and shifted their place. He worked until the figures swam before his eyes, when he laid aside the pen, and picked up theBugle, glancing carelessly over the first page.
His attention immediately concentrated on the headlines of the left-hand column, his gaze had caught the words, “Tennessee and Northern.”
“Goddy!” he exclaimed aloud; “they’ve got it in theBugle, the railroad coming and all.”
He was glad that the information had been printed, it would materially assist in the announcement and carrying out of his plan. He folded the paper more compactly, leaned back in his chair to read ... Why!... Why, damn it! they had it all wrong; they were entirely mistaken; they had printed a deliberate—a deliberate—
He stopped reading to marshal his surprised and scattered faculties. Then, with a rigid countenance, he pursued the article to the end. When he had finished his gaze remained subconsciously fastened upon the paper, upon the advertisement of a man who paid for and removed the bodies of dead animals.
Gordon Makimmon’s lips formed, barely audibly, a name; he whispered, “Valentine Simmons.”
At last the storekeeper had utterly ruined him. He raised the paper from where it had fallen and read the article once more. It was a floridly and violently written account of how a projected branch of the Tennessee and Northern System through Greenstream valley, long striven for by solid and public-spirited citizens of the County, had been prevented by the hidden avarice of a well-known local figure, an ex-stage driver.
The latter, the account proceeded, with a foreknowledge of the projected transportation, had secured for little or nothing an option on practically all the desirable timber of the valley, and had held it at such a high figure that the railroad had been forced to abandon the scheme.
“What Greenstream thus loses through blind gluttony cannot be enumerated by a justly incensed pen. The loss to us, to our sons and daughters.... This secret and sinister schemer hid his purpose, it now appears, in a cloak of seeming benevolence. We recall a feeling of doubt, which we generously and wrongfully suppressed at the time, concerning the motives of such ill-considered ...”
“Valentine Simmons,” he repeated harshly. He controlled theBuglein addition to countless other industries and interests of Greenstream. This article could not have been printed without Simmons’ cognizance, his co-operation. It was the crown of his long and victorious struggle with Gordon Makimmon. The storekeeper had sold him the options knowing that the railroad was not coming to the valley—some inhibition had arisen in the negotiations—he had destroyed him with Gordon’s own blindness, credulity. And he had walked like a rat into the trap.
The bitter irony of it rose in a wave of black mirth to his twisted lips; he, Gordon Makimmon, was exposed as an avaricious schemer with the prospects of Greenstream, with men’s hopes, with their chances. While Simmons, it was plainly intimated, had labored faithfully and in vain for the people.
He rose and shook his clenched hands above his head. “If I had only shot him!” he cried. “If I had only shot him at first!”
It was too late now: nothing could be gained by crushing the flickering vitality from that aged, pinkish husk. It was, Gordon dimly realized, a greater power than that contained by a single individual, by Valentine Simmons, that had beaten him. It was a stupendous and materialistic force against the metallic sweep of which he had cast himself in vain—it was the power, the unconquerable godhead, of gold.
The thought of the storekeeper was lost in the realization of the collapse of all that he had laboriously planned. The destruction was absolute; not an inner desire nor need escaped; not a projection remained. The papers before him, so painfully comprehended, with such a determination of justice, were but the visible marks of the futility, the waste, of his dreaming.
He sank heavily into the chair before his table. He recalled the younger Entriken’s smooth lies, the debauchery of his money by the Nickles; William Vibard’s accordions mocked him again ... all, all, had been in vain, worthless. General Jackson rose, and laid his long, shaggy, heavy head upon Gordon’s knee.
“We’re done for,” he told the dog; “we’re finished this time. Everything has gone to hell.”