The Best Man

by Harold MacGrath

  THE BEST MAN

  by

  HAROLD MACGRATH

  Author of The Man on the Box, Hearts and Masks, Half a Rogue, Etc.

  With Illustrations by Will Grefe.

  Decorations by Franklin Booth.

  New YorkA. L. Burt CompanyPublishers

  Copyright 1907The Bobbs-Merrill Company

  October

  _To the_ Ramsdells In Memory of Many Pleasant Florentine Days

  Thanks are due _Ainslee's Magazine_ for permission to republish The Advent of Mr. "Shifty" Sullivan.

  The BEST MAN

  THE BEST MAN

  I

  CARRINGTON folded the document and thoughtfully balanced it on his palm.What an ironical old world it was! There was a perpendicular wrinkleabout his nose, and his lips had thinned into a mere line which droopedat the corners. The drone of a type-writer in the adjoining room soundedabove the rattle-tattle of the street below. Through the opened windowscame a vague breath of summer redolent of flowers and grasses; for itwas but eleven o'clock of the morning, and the smell of sun-baked brickand asphalt had not yet risen through the air. Far beyond the smoking,ragged sky-line Carrington could see the shifting, glittering river andthe great ships going down to the sea. Presently the ashes from his deadcigar fell in a gray cascade down his coat and tumbled across his knees,but he gave no heed.

  Ironical old world indeed! Here, suddenly and unexpectedly, he foundhimself upon the battle-field of love and duty, where all honest menfind themselves, sooner or later. To pit the heart against theconscience, impulse against calculation! Heigh-ho! Duty is an implacablegoddess, and those who serve her most loyally are most ruthlesslydriven. She buffets us into this corner and into that, digs pitfalls forthe hesitant foot, and crushes the vacillating.

  As all men will, Carrington set about to argue down his conscience; theheart is so insistent a counselor. Why should he give up the woman heloved, simply because duty demanded he should? After all, was not dutymerely social obligation? What was it to him that the sheep weresheared? Was it right that he, of all men, should divide the house,throw the black pall of dishonesty over it, destroy his own happinessand hers, when so simple a thing as a match would crumble intonothingness this monument to one man's greed and selfishness? Thesurvival of the fittest; if he put aside Self, who would thank him? Few,and many would call him a fool or a meddler. So many voices spoke thathe seemed to hear none distinctly.

  He alone had made these astonishing discoveries; he alone had followedthe cunningly hidden trail of the serpent. He could stop where he wasand none would be the wiser. To be sure, it was only a question of timewhen the scandal would become public through other channels; but in thatevent he would not be held responsible for bringing about thecatastrophe. Besides, the ways of the serpent are devious and many, andother investigators might not come so close to the trail.

  He had gone about his investigations without the least idea where theywould lead him. At the beginning he had believed that the guilty oneswere none higher than petty officials; but presently he found himselfgoing over their heads, higher and higher, until, behold! he was at thelair of the old serpent himself. A client had carelessly dropped a bitof information, and it had taken seed with this surprising result. HenryCavenaugh, millionaire promoter, financier, trust magnate, director in ahundred money-gathering concerns; Henry Cavenaugh, the father of thegirl he loved and who loved him! Could it be he, indeed? It seemedincredible.

  It was not a case of misappropriation of funds, such as a man may beguilty of when temporarily hard pressed. It was a bold and fraudulentpassing of dividends that rightfully belonged to the investors; ofwrongfully issuing statements of bolstered expenses, lack of markets,long strikes (promoted by Cavenaugh and his associates!), insufficientmeans of transportation. An annual dividend of seven per cent. on manymillions had been dishonestly passed over. The reports that there wouldbe no dividends encouraged a slump in the listed price of the stock, andmany had sold under par value, thereby netting to Cavenaugh and othersseveral millions. And the proof of all this lay in his hand!

  It had been a keen hunt. Many and many a blind trail had he followed,only to come back to the start again. All that now remained for him todo was to pass this document on to the hands of the intrepid districtattorney, and justice would be meted out to the guilty.

  Her father! The picture of him rose suddenly and distinctly in his mind.Tall, powerfully built, a hooked nose, keen blue eyes, an aggressivechin, a repellent mouth, Henry Cavenaugh was the personification of themodern Croesus. Immutable in purpose, dogged in perseverance, arelentless enemy, a Jesuit in that the end always justified the means,he stood a pillar in the world of finance, where there is sometimesjustice but never any mercy. Thirty-five years before he had been amessenger in a stock-broker's office. Of his antecedents nothing wasknown until he broke one of the famous gold corners in the seventies,when a handsome, ruddy-cheeked little Irishman bobbed up serenely fromnowhere in particular and claimed to be the great Cavenaugh's father.But his proofs were not convincing, and when the son showed a decidedcontempt for him, he gently subsided into oblivion and was heard of nomore. From time to time Carrington gathered a small crumb of informationregarding his sweetheart's grandfather; but whenever he broached thesubject, however tactfully, everybody concerned headed the conversationfor a different port.

  Carrington had never laid eyes on the old gentleman, and, for all heknew to the contrary, he might be a myth. He reasoned that in allprobability the grandfather was illiterate, uncouth, and rather anawkward piece of family furniture to handle, when the family proper wereingratiating themselves into the Chippendales of society. Unfortunately,Mother Cavenaugh, good-hearted and amiable in her way, had been stung bythe bee of the climbers, and her one ambition was to establish herselfand daughters in society; and had not he, Carrington, come of anaristocratic family (poor, it is true), the doors of the Cavenaugh manorwould never have opened to his knock. Even as it was, he was _personanon grata_ to the millionaire, who was mad for a duke in the family.Besides, Cavenaugh had his suspicions of any lawyer who grubbed outsidethe breastworks.

  Some doves circled above a church-spire a few streets over the way,breaking the sunbeams against their polished wings. Finally they settledon the slate roof and fell to strutting and waddling and swelling theirbreasts pompously. Carrington opened and refolded the document, but hedid not take his eyes from the doves. What should he do? What ill windhad blown this thing into his doorway? Nothing had warned him of theimpending tangle. Until two days ago Cavenaugh was at the other end ofthe world, so far as his investigations at that time were concerned.

  He struck a match. The sliver of pine flared palely in the sunshine,writhed and dropped, black and charred, to the floor. He shrugged hisshoulders. Chivalry of this sort was not the order of the day. There wassomething stronger than the voice of duty, something stronger than thevoice of the heart; it was the voice of pity, which urged its appeal forthe hundreds of men and women who had invested their all in theCavenaugh concerns. The thought of their ultimate ruin, should Cavenaughbe permitted to pursue his course unchecked, bore heavily upon him. No,he could not do it. He must fight, even if he lost his all in thebattle. It is a fine thing to right a wrong. All the great victories inthe world have been won for others than the victors. That Cavenaugh wasthe father of the girl he loved must have no weight on the scales ofjustice.

  Resolutely he thrust the document into his coat pocket, closed his deskand relighted his cigar. In that moment he had mapped out his plan ofaction. That very night he would lay the whole thing very clearly beforethe girl herself, and whate
ver decision she made, he would stand or fallby it, for he knew her to be the soul of honor.

  Poor girl! It was a heart-breaking business. How in the world should hebegin, and where should he stop? Ah, that was it! He would lay thematter before her in a manner that would conceal the vital nearness ofthe case, as if it were some client of his who was unknown to her. Andwhen she had judged the case, he would speak the bald truth. It would bea cruel blow, but nevertheless he must deal it. She loved her father,and after his own peculiar fashion her father loved her. She was theonly one in the family who could wheedle him out of a purpose; to therest of the family his word was law immutable. It was very hard, sighedCarrington. For the father he had neither pity nor sympathy; there weremany ugly tales about his financial dealings; but his whole heart wentout unreservedly to the girl.

  When Carrington had gone to Cavenaugh, his heart in his throat, to speakto him relative to his daughter's hand, he unwittingly knocked off thetop of a volcano.

  "Marry my daughter?" Cavenaugh roared, emphasizing his wrath anddisapproval with a bang of fist upon palm. "My daughter shall marry onlyamong her equals, not among her inferiors. A king is not good enough formy Kate." There was another bang of the fist, decided and final. "Alawyer? Not if I know myself. I wouldn't trust a lawyer out of sight,"bluntly. "Kate shall marry a duke or a prince, if I can find onesuitable."

  Carrington would have smiled had the moment been less serious.

  "No man can possibly appreciate her worth more readily than I, sir," hereplied, "or love her more dearly."

  "Love?" with a snort. "Twaddle out of story-books!"

  "But you yourself love her."

  "I'm her father," Cavenaugh returned complacently, adding a gesturewhich had the effect of describing the fact that it was perfectlylogical for a father to love his daughter, but that it wasn't logical atall for any other male biped to love her.

  "I am sorry," said the disheartened suitor, rising. "I suppose thatafter this unpleasant interview ..."

  "Oh, you're a decent sort," interrupted Cavenaugh generously; "and ifyou are of a mind to behave yourself hereafter, you will always find achair at my table. But my daughter is not for you, sir, emphaticallynot. That is all, sir;" and Cavenaugh picked up his evening paper.

  After such a rebuff, most young men would have given up; but Carringtonnever gave up till there was no possibility of winning. Immediatelyafter the interview he went to the higher court with his appeal.

  "Let us have patience," the girl whispered. "I'll undertake to bring himto reason."

  But Carrington went home that night without his love for the fatherincreasing any.

  And so the matter stood at the present time. The affair had gone neitherforward nor backward.

  Ah, were he less honest, how easily he could bring the old curmudgeon toterms! There was that in his pocket which would open the way to thealtar, quickly enough. But Carrington was manly and honest to the core,and to him blackmail stood among the basest of crimes. Many times duringthe past forty-eight hours the tempter had whispered in his ear thathere was a way out of his difficulties; but the young man had listenedunmoved.

  During the summer and autumn months of the year the Cavenaughs lived attheir country place over in New Jersey, and there Carrington spent theweek-ends. There were horses to ride, golf and tennis, and a Saturdaynight dance at the Country Club. To be with the girl you love, even ifyou can't have her, is some compensation. Cavenaugh never joined thefetes and sports of the summer colonists, but he offered no objectionsto the feminine members of his household for selecting Carrington astheir escort for the week-ends. Indeed, by now he began to considerCarrington as a harmless, sensible, well-groomed young man, who relievedhim of all the painful duties to the frivolous. If the colonistsinsisted on coupling his daughter's name with Carrington's, let them doso; when the proper moment came he would disillusionize them. Forhimself, he always had some good old crony down to while away the dullSundays; and together they consummated plans that gave the _coup degrace_ to many a noble business galleon. This particular summer therewere no dukes or princes floating around unattached, and Cavenaughagreed that it was a commendable time to lay devices by which to ambushthe winter money.

  There were nights when Cavenaugh did not sleep very well; but of this,more anon.

  Shortly after his determination to tell Kate half a truth, Carringtonleft the office and made an early train into New Jersey. All the wayover to the Cavenaugh station he was restless and uneasy. The fatalpapers still reposed in his pocket. He had not dared to leave them inthe office safe; his partner, who had had no hand in the investigation,might stumble across them, and that was the last thing in the world hedesired. He knew not exactly what to do with them; for they burned likefire in his pocket, and seemed to scorch his fingers whenever he touchedthem to learn if they were still there. A thousand and one absurdsuppositions assailed him. Supposing, for instance, there should be awreck; supposing he should be robbed; supposing he should leave his veston the links; and so forth and so forth. It was very depressing. If onlyhe stood in the open, unhandicapped; if only he might throw the gauntletat Cavenaugh's feet the moment they met!

  Ah, if he had only attended to his own affairs! But he hadn't; and hisinquisitiveness had plunged him into a Chinese tangle from which thereseemed to be no exit. But there was an exit; only, if at that momentCassandra had whispered the secret into his ear, it would have appealedto him as the most improbable thing under the sun. However, there are notrustworthy Cassandras these sordid days; a single look into the futurecosts a dollar; and as for Greek choruses, they trundle push-carts onthe East Side.

  He had broken bread and eaten salt at Cavenaugh's table; and now it wasdecreed that he must betray him. It was not a pleasant thought. Andstill less pleasant was the thought of telling Kate (in a roundaboutfashion, it is true) that her father was not an honest man. According tofinancial ethics, what Cavenaugh did was simply keen business instinct;nothing more. If you or I should happen to bend an odd cornice of themajestic pillar of law, we'd be haled off to the county jail forthwith;but if we possessed the skill to smash the whole fabric or rather, tocontinue the metaphor, the whole pillar, the great world would sit upand admire us. What are old laws for, anyhow? Build you never so wiselyyour law, there will always be some one to come along and tack on a nicelittle amendment, subtly undoing in a moment what it took years of laborto accomplish. In this instance, Cavenaugh had been careless; he hadforgotten to introduce his amendment. An infinitesimal grain of sandwill stop the best regulated clock. The infallible invariably die on theheels of their first victory.

  On leaving the train, Carrington espied the Cavenaugh station carriage.The coachman was talking to a little wiry old man, whose gray eyestwinkled and whose complexion was mottled and withered like a wind-fallapple. Seeing Carrington draw nigh, the coachman touched his hatrespectfully, while the little old man, who was rather shabbily dressed,stepped quickly around the corner of the platform. Evidently he did notwish to be inspected at close range. Carrington threw his suit-case andgolf-bag into the carriage, and followed them. Thereupon the coachmantouched the horses lightly, and they started westward at a brisk trot.

  "Who's your friend?" asked Carrington, who, though never familiar, wasalways friendly toward his inferiors.

  "He's no friend of mine, sir," answered the coachman, with well-bredcontempt. "Miss Cavenaugh directed me to drive you straight to the club,sir."

  "Very well," replied Carrington, lighting a cigar and settling backamong the cushions.

  Immediately he forgot all about the shabby old man, and began toinventory his troubles. He must hide the papers somewhere. All theevidence he had, together with the names of the witnesses, was on hisperson; for in making the whole he had prudently destroyed the numerousscraps. If this document fell into alien hands, the trouble would doubleitself. He puffed quickly, and the heat of the cigar put a smart on histongue. He had nothing to do but wait.

  On the steps of the club's porte-cochere he was
greeted by MissCavenaugh, who was simply and tastefully dressed in white. If there wasa sudden cardiac disturbance in Carrington's breast, the girl's tenderbeauty certainly justified it. The fresh color on her cheeks and lips,the shining black hair that arched a white forehead, the darkly fringedblue eyes, the slender, rounded figure, the small feet and shapelyhands, all combined to produce a picture of feminine lovelinesswarranted to charm any masculine eye. Let the curious questionCavenaugh's antecedents, if they were so inclined, thought Carrington;here was abundant evidence of what a certain old poet called thesplendid corpuscle of aristocracy.

  Her sister went by the sonorous name of Norah. She was seventeen, a bitof a tomboy, but of the same build and elegant carriage thatdistinguished Kate from ordinary mortals; only Norah's eyes werehazel-tinted and her hair was that warm brown of the heart of achestnut-bur. She was of merry temperament, quick to like or to dislike,and like her sister, loyal to those she loved. Both girls possessed thatuncommon gift in women, the perfect sense of justice. You never heardthem gossiping about anybody; and when a veranda conversation driftedtoward scandal, the Cavenaugh girls invariably drifted toward thefarther end of the veranda. All the men admired them; they were suchgood fellows.

  The mother of the girls was, as I have remarked, good-natured andamiable, inclined toward stoutness, and a willing listener to all thatwas going on. She considered it her bounden duty to keep informedregarding the doings of her intimate friends, but with total lack ofmalice. At this moment she occupied her favorite corner on the clubveranda, and was engaged in animated tittle-tattle. She nodded andsmiled at Carrington.

  Norah was playing tennis. She waved her racket at the new arrival.Carrington was her beau-ideal.

  He hurried into the dressing-room and shortly returned in his golfflannels. He was a sturdy chap, not at all handsome, but possessing acountenance full of strong lines. He inspired your trust and confidence,which is far better than inspiring your admiration.

  "I am not going to play to-day," said Kate, "so I'll follow over thecourse and watch you play. I haven't seen you for a whole week; and Ican't talk and play, too," smiling.

  "Forward, then!" cried Carrington, beckoning to his caddy.

  He played a nervous, fidgety game that afternoon. Every time he teed hisball the document spoke from his pocket with an ominous crackle. Therewas not one brilliant stroke to his credit. This puzzled the girl, foronly the previous week he had been runner-up in the annual tournamentfor crack amateurs. He made the ninth hole indifferently, then turned tothe girl, smiling whimsically.

  "You are not playing up to your form to-day, John," she observed.

  "I admit it," he replied, tossing his club to the caddy, who, wellversed in worldly affairs, serenely shouldered the bag and made offtoward the club house. "My heart isn't in the game, Kate. The fact is,I'm in a peck of trouble." He determined to tell her at once. Theremight not be another opportunity like this.

  "Why, John!" reproachfully.

  "Oh, it came only yesterday. I haven't been hiding it. I'm in a kind ofpocket, and can't exactly see my way out. I want your advice; and youmust be the jury and judge rolled into one."

  They were standing on a hill, and far away they could see the pale linewhere the shimmering summer sea met the turquoise bowl of heaven.

  "Tell me what your difficulty is, John, and I will judge it the best Iknow how."

  He never knew what a simple, beautiful name John was till it fell fromthe lips of this girl. Many called him Jack; but only his mother andthis girl called him John. He motioned toward the sandbox, and they satdown. The other players were well scattered about, out of hearing. Hemade out his case skilfully enough, giving his plaintiff and defendantfictitious names. The thing grew so real to him, as he went on, thattoward the end he rose to the dramatics. The girl listened, but withnever a glance at him. Rather her gaze roved over the dancing graywaters and followed the lonely white sail that stood out to sea. Andwhen he reached the climax, silence of some duration fell upon them.

  "Should this man be punished?" he asked at length.

  "He is guilty; he has broken two laws, the civic and human. Oh, the poorpeople!" pathetically. "They are never at peace; the wolf harries them,and the jackal; they are robbed, beaten and spurned. They are likesheep, not knowing how to fight. They arrest a man for his poverty; theyapplaud him for his greed. It is all very wrong."

  The sail fell under the shadow of a cloud, and they both watched it tillit flashed into the sunlight again.

  "A woman's intuition is sometimes abnormally keen. You are strong enoughto fight such things without the advice of a woman. Is there notsomething vital to me in all this? Is it not ... is it not my father,John?"