CHAPTER XIX.
THE FALL OF THE MIGHTY OAK.
The small uniformed myrmidon of the telegraph company stands in front of the big Western sheriff, and holds the message behind his back.
“Who are you?” he asks immediately.
“The one you’re looking for, I reckon—Colonel Robert Rocket.”
“Say, kin you read, boss?” demands the boy, a sharp-faced chap.
“Well, yes, a little,” returns the other, frowning, for he is impatient to receive his own.
“Then just cast your eyes on that 'ere enwelope, from a distance like, an’ tell me if you kin make Bob Rocket or Davy Crockett or any other firework show out o’ it.”
Plainly he reads the name of Samson Cereal, and the address below.
“The devil! I made a mistake. Boy, follow the nigger. It aint for me—yet!” And the sheriff falls back out of the way, a little ruffled, but still on deck.
Aleck has heard it all.
He knows that while relieved from one source of anxiety, another has shown its head. What reception will the great speculator give this message? True, he must often receive telegrams on many important subjects, but a man of his firmness would not show this intense anxiety over a matter unless it was of the utmost moment.
Naturally, therefore, Aleck, being decidedly interested, moves in the direction of the big operator.
By this time Samson Cereal has caught sight of the colored door-keeper leading the sagacious messenger boy to his quarter. The latter takes it all as a matter of course. There can be seen no trace of amazement on his face, though the decoration of the rooms is superb, and the toilets of the ladies charming. One of these imps would strut through the palace of a Czar with the indifference of a princeling to the manner born.
Now he addresses the lord of the manor, and puts to him questions regarding his identity that soon establish the fact.
“Put her on that 'ere line—an’ the time.”
Cereal hastily signs his name.
He realizes that a number of people are watching him curiously, and with a great effort maintains his self possession. His wonderful nerve serves him well in such an emergency as this. As if the matter is of little importance he thrusts the message unopened into his pocket and goes on chatting with the gentleman at his side.
“Well done!” says Aleck in admiration, for his eyes can see that the other is eager to get at the message.
Presently Craig misses him.
The library is at the back of the house. He has been in it before during the evening. From the open windows one can look out upon the lake, and the scene in the misty moonlight is one to conjure up all manner of romance. Moonlight, the gentle undulations of water, and love seem to go hand in hand.
To this quarter Aleck bends his steps, wondering if the operator went thither. The door of the library is open, and, looking in, he sees Samson Cereal. The operator is alone. He stands under the gas jet, and has with trembling hands torn the end from the little buff envelope.
He draws out the inclosure, and then, as if unable to look at it, drops his hand. This weakness is but momentary. With a harsh laugh he finally raises his hand, and his eyes take in the contents of the message.
Aleck sees him stagger back and clap a hand across his forehead, while to his ears float the words—how sadly they sound, with that soft music swelling from the retreat near by:
“Lost—everything lost! After all theseyears of building up, to be ruined now. Good God! I shall go mad—mad!”
When a man of his caliber gives way under a severe strain, there is a terrible danger of his mind going. Aleck Craig once studied for a doctor, and realizes the desperate nature of the situation. The operator has apparently forgotten all about the fact that his mansion is filled with guests. Upon his mind weighs the one terrible thought of ruin. It glares at him from the walls in malignant letters—everywhere he sees in letters of fire the awful word that is seared upon his brain.
A proud man Samson Cereal has been. Up to this time he has been very conservative, and small-sized panics have passed him unharmed. This summer’s dullness in trade has tempted him to make a break in a direction whither he has never before trod. By degrees he has gone in deeper and deeper until everything that he has in the wide world is risked; and this during a time when, owing to the public alarm, one cannot raise a thousand dollars on securities worth twenty times the amount. Instead of diminishing, the old man’s agitation seems to increase. He staggersas he walks, and then suddenly drops into a chair, where his chin falls upon his breast. Such an attitude of dejection Aleck never before looked upon.
He remembers that it is his duty to tell the children of this man that Samson Cereal may be dying there in his chair. Heaven knows he looks about as much like a dying man as the human mind could conceive. A tragedy seems imminent, and yet Aleck feels that the fact should not be made known if it is possible to keep it a secret. These people have come here for pleasure—why then should they be disturbed in their search for it. They have no especial interest in Samson Cereal, beyond the fact that he is rich and gives entertainments that it is an honor to attend. The speculator may sink out of sight and his disappearance create but a slight ripple on the sea in which he swims.
Aleck has some such idea as this in his brain, as he gently closes the library door, and moves away to find the son and daughter.
Somehow the gay scene has lost all its attractions for him. He can remember only the agony he has seen depicted upon the face ofthe man in the library—the man who wrestles with the pent-up feelings of his soul, now bursting their barriers and flowing over.
Among the guests he sees Dorothy, and as he looks upon the fair vision he hates himself because necessity compels him to bring pain to her. If it were possible he would shield her—that is the thought that flashes into his mind, and it proves how far the young Canadian is gone in the realm of love.
Now he catches her eye and makes a quick motion with his hand. She seems to understand and, leaving her friends, comes up to him. Upon her face is a look of inquiry—perhaps even a shade of alarm. Of course her first thought is in connection with John.
He knows curious eyes must be upon her most of the time, and desires to protect her.
“Miss Dorothy, can you be brave to take a sudden shock without showing these people that something has happened?” he says quietly.
There leaps into her eyes a swift gleam of alarm. Then she realizes what he refers to and seeks to avoid—pride comes to the rescue.
“Yes, I believe so, Mr. Craig. Tell me whathas happened. It is something terrible, I know, for your face is so very sober. John——”
“No, it is your father, Miss Dorothy.”
He has with some diplomacy managed to turn her back toward the good people who fill the room. The music, one of Schumann’s weird creations, rises and falls in sobs and strange, almost unearthly sounds, until it seems to Aleck the elements have united in mourning over Samson Cereal’s downfall.
“Tell me the worst, I can stand it. See, I have more courage than you give me credit for, but for Heaven’s sake be quick!”
He realizes that there is need of haste, for it must be agony to her, each second’s delay.
“Your father has received a telegram—it must have contained news of a distressing character, for I found him in the library, giving way to his emotion and speaking of being ruined.”
“Oh, this is terrible, Mr. Craig! My poor papa!”
“I understand that you would hardly care to have these people eye-witnesses of the scene, and so I closed the door. Then I sought you and looked for John.”
“Let us go to him at once. If there is suffering I should share it with my poor father.”
“Perhaps,” says Aleck wisely, “we had better look for your brother.”
It pleases him to look upon their relationship in this light. Once he felt the pangs of jealousy when thinking of this same young miner. Then again, at the mention of John’s name, a sudden regret flashes into his mind. He remembers that there is also a sword hanging over him, liable to descend at any moment—a sword in the hands of Bob Rocket, who waits for final instructions, unaccountably delayed, before arresting his man.
Surely a cruel fate has conspired to bring about this crisis on the very night when gayety abounds in the speculator’s mansion.
Dorothy realizes the wisdom of his words. Whatever he may seem to Aleck, who has the privilege of reading between the lines and looking behind the scenes, to her John is a bulwark of strength, and in a crisis like this can be depended on.
As luck will have it the object of their search is near at hand, and catching his eye Aleck beckons. When John joins themhe is told in a few brief sentences what has occurred.
They approach the library door, but Colonel Rocket, not willing to lose sight of his man even for a minute, saunters after.
Upon opening the door they discover the old speculator with his head lying on both arms, which are thrown upon the table. He does not move, does not apparently hear their entrance. His manner is that of one entirely given over to despair. It would be difficult indeed to recognize in this bowed, broken figure the bold speculator whom previous storms have failed to bend. When the sturdy oak goes before the tempest, it is with a mighty crash.
Aleck closes the door. He would lock it, but finds no key. Dorothy has already flown to the side of her father, and drops on her knees.
So long as he lives Craig can never forget the picture thus presented—the fair girl dressed in her exquisite reception robes, a princess by right of beauty, kneeling there and fondly stroking the silvered head of the old wheat king.
“Dear father, what is the matter? Someterrible trouble has come upon you, some crushing sorrow. I am your child, your Dorothy. Let me share it with you—confide in me, dear.”
She fondly pats his head while speaking thus, just as though it were a child she addressed. The speculator looks up. His face is very, very white, and lines of pain show upon it, but through this he smiles, oh, so sweetly, as his eyes fall upon the fair face so near his own.
“My dear girl, I thank God I secured an annuity for you some years ago. That at least is saved. I have received bad news—the worst that could have happened has arrived, and I am afraid, my dear girl, that your father is—a ruined man!”