The Deluge
Page 33
XXXIII. MRS. LANGDON MAKES A CALL.Next day Langdon's stocks wavered, going up a little, going down a little,closing at practically the same figures at which they had opened. Then Isprang my sensation--that Langdon and his particular clique, though theycontrolled the Textile Trust, did not own so much as one-fiftieth of itsvoting stock. True "captains of industry" that they were, they made theirprofits not out of dividends, but out of side schemes that absorbed abouttwo-thirds of the earnings of the Trust, and out of gambling in its bondsand stocks. I said in conclusion:
"The largest owner of the stock is Walter G. Edmunds, of Chicago--an honestman. Send your voting proxies to him, and he can take the Textile Companyaway from those now plundering it."
As the annual election of the Trust was only six weeks away, Langdonand his clique were in a panic. They rushed into the market and boughtfrantically, the public bidding against them. Langdon himself went toChicago to reason with Edmunds--that is, to try to find out at what figurehe could be bought. And so on, day after day, I faithfully reporting tothe public the main occurrences behind the scenes. The Langdon attempt toregain control by purchases of stock failed. He and his allies made whatmust have been to them appalling sacrifices; but even at the high pricesthey offered, comparatively little of the stock appeared.
"I've caught them," said I to Joe--the first time, and the last, duringthat campaign that I indulged in a boast.
"If Edmunds sticks to you," replied cautious Joe.
But Edmunds did not. I do not know at what price he sold himself. Probablyit was pitifully small; cupidity usually snatches the instant bait ticklesits nose. But I do know that my faith in human nature got its severestshock.
"You are down this morning," said Thornley, when I looked in on him at hisbank. "I don't think I ever before saw you show that you were in lowspirits."
"I've found out a man with whom I'd have trusted my life," said I."Sometimes I think all men are dishonest. I've tried to be an optimist likeyou, and have told myself that most men must be honest or ninety-five percent. of the business couldn't be done on credit as it is."
Thornley smiled, like an old man at the enthusiasm of a youngster. "Thatproves nothing as to honesty," said he. "It simply shows that men canbe counted on to do what it is to their plain interest to do. The truthis--and a fine truth, too--most men wish and try to be honest. Give 'em achance to resist their own weaknesses. Don't trust them. Trust--that's themaking of false friends and the filling of jails."
"And palaces," I added.
"And palaces," assented he. "Every vast fortune is a monument to thecredulity of man. Instead of getting after these heavy-laden rascals,Matthew, you'd better have turned your attention to the public that hasmade rascals of them by leaving its property unguarded."
Fortunately, Edmunds had held out, or, rather, Langdon had delayedapproaching him, long enough for me to gain my main point. The uproarover the Textile Trust had become so great that the national Departmentof Commerce dared not refuse an investigation; and I straightway began tospread out in my daily letters the facts of the Trust's enormous earningsand of the shameful sources of those earnings. Thanks to Langdon'spolitical pull, the president appointed as investigator one of thoserascals who carefully build themselves good reputations to enable them tocharge higher prices for dirty work. But, with my facts before the people,whitewash was impossible.
I was expecting emissaries from Langdon, for I knew he must now be actuallyin straits. Even the Universal Life didn't dare lend him money; and wastrying to call in the millions it had loaned him. But I was astounded whenmy private door opened and Mrs. Langdon ushered herself in.
"Don't blame your boy, Mr. Blacklock," cried she gaily, exasperatinglyconfident that I was as delighted with her as she was with herself. "I toldhim you were expecting me and didn't give him a chance to stop me."
I assumed she had come to give me wholly undeserved thanks for revengingher upon her recreant husband. I tried to look civil and courteous, but Ifelt that my face was darkening--her very presence forced forward things Ihad been keeping in the far background of my mind, "How can I be of serviceto you, Madam?" said I.
"I bring you good news," she replied--and I noted that she no longer lookedhaggard and wretched, that her beauty was once more smiling with a certaingirlishness, like a young widow's when she finds her consolation. "Mowbrayand I have made it up," she explained.
I simply listened, probably looking as grim as I felt.
"I knew you would be interested," she went on. "Indeed, it means almost asmuch to you as to me. It brings peace to _two_ families."
Still I did not relax.
"And so," she continued, a little uneasy, "I came to you immediately."
I continued to listen, as if I were waiting for her to finish and depart.
"If you want, I'll go to Anita." Natural feminine tact would have saved herfrom this rawness; but, convinced that she was a "great lady" by theflattery of servants and shopkeepers and sensational newspapers and socialclimbers, she had discarded tact as worthy only of the lowly and of theaspiring before they "arrive."
"You are too kind," said I. "Mrs. Blacklock and I feel competent to takecare of our own affairs."
"Please, Mr. Blacklock," she said, realizing that she had blundered, "don'ttake my directness the wrong way. Life is too short for pose and pretenseabout the few things that really matter. Why shouldn't we be frank witheach other?"
"I trust you will excuse me," said I, moving toward the door--I had notseated myself when she did. "I think I have made it clear that we havenothing to discuss."
"You have the reputation of being generous and too big for hatred. That iswhy I have come to you," said she, her expression confirming my suspicionof the real and only reason for her visit. "Mowbray and I are completelyreconciled--_completely_, you understand. And I want you to begenerous, and not keep on with this attack. I am involved even more thanhe. He has used up his fortune in defending mine. Now, you are simplytrying to ruin me--not him, but _me_. The president is a friend ofMowbray's, and he'll call off this horrid investigation, and everything'llbe all right, if you'll only stop."
"Who sent you here?" I asked.
"I came of my own accord," she protested. Then, realizing from the sound ofher voice that she could not have convinced me with a tone so unconvincing,she hedged with: "It was my own suggestion, really it was."
"Your husband permitted _you_ to come--and to _me_?"
She flushed.
"And you have accepted his overtures when you knew he made them onlybecause he needed your money?"
She hung her head. "I love him," she said simply. Then she looked straightat me and I liked her expression. "A woman has no false pride when love isat stake," she said. "We leave that to you men."
"Love!" I retorted, rather satirically, I imagine. "How much had your ownimperiled fortune to do with your being so forgiving?"
"Something," she admitted. "You must remember I have children. I must thinkof their future. I don't want them to be poor. I want them to have thestation they were born to." She went to one of the windows overlooking thestreet. "Look here!" she said.
I stood beside her. The window was not far above the street level. Justbelow us was a handsome victoria, coachman, harness, horses, all mostproper, a footman rigid at the step. A crowd had gathered round--in thosestirring days when I was the chief subject of conversation wherever menwere interested in money--and where are they not?--there was almost alwaysa crowd before my offices. In the carriage sat two children, a boy and agirl, hardly more than babies. They were gorgeously overdressed, afterthe vulgar fashion of aristocrats and apers of aristocracy. They satstiffly, like little scions of royalty, with that expression of complacentsuperiority which one so often sees on the faces of the little children ofthe very rich--and some not so little, too. The thronging loungers, mostof them either immigrant peasants from European caste countries or theun-disinfected sons of peasants, were gaping in true New York "lower class"awe; the children were l
iterally swelling with delighted vanity. If theyhad been pampered pet dogs, one would have laughed. As they were humanbeings, it filled me with sadness and pity. What ignorance, what stupidityto bring up children thus in democratic America--democratic to-day,inevitably more democratic to-morrow! What a turning away from the light!What a crime against the children!
"For their sake, Mr. Blacklock," she pleaded, her mother love wholly hidingfrom her the features of the spectacle that for me shrieked like scarletagainst a white background.
"Your husband has deceived you about your fortune, Mrs. Langdon," I saidgently, for there is to me something pathetic in ignorance and I was notblaming her for her folly and her crime against her children. "You can tellhim what I am about to say, or not, as you please. But my advice is thatyou keep it to yourself. Even if the present situation develops as seemsprobable, develops as Mr. Langdon fears, you will not be left without afortune--a very large fortune, most people would think. But Mr. Langdonwill have little or nothing--indeed, I think he is practically dependenton you now."
"What I have is his," she said.
"That is generous," replied I, not especially impressed by a sentiment, thevery uttering of which raised a strong doubt of its truth. "But is itprudent? You wish to keep him--securely. Don't tempt him by a generosity hewould only abuse."
She thought it over. "The idea of holding a man in that way is repellent tome," said she, now obviously posing.
"If the man happens to be one that can be held in no other way," said I,moving significantly toward the door, "one must overcome one'srepugnance--or be despoiled and abandoned."
"Thank you," she said, giving me her hand. "Thank you--more than I cansay." She had forgotten entirely that she came to plead for her husband."And I hope you will soon be as happy as I am." That last in New York'sfunniest "great lady" style.
I bowed, and when there was the closed door between us, I laughed, not atall pleasantly. "This New York!" I said aloud. "This New York that dabblesits slime of sordidness and snobbishness on every flower in the garden ofhuman nature. New York that destroys pride and substitutes vanity for it.New York with its petty, mischievous class-makers, the pattern for therich and the 'smarties' throughout the country. These 'cut-out' minds andhearts, the best of them incapable of growth and calloused wherever thescissors of conventionality have snipped."
I took from my pocket the picture of Anita I always carried. "Are_you_ like that?" I demanded of it. And it seemed to answer: "Yes,--Iam." Did I tear the picture up? No. I kissed it as if it were the magneticreality. "I don't care what you are!" I cried. "I want you! I want you!"
"Fool!" you are saying. Precisely what I called myself. And you? Is itthe one you _ought_ to love that you give your heart to? Is it theone that understands you and sympathizes with you? Or is it the one whosepresence gives you visions of paradise and whose absence blots out thelight?
I loved her. Yet I will say this much for myself: I still would not havetaken her on any terms that did not make her really mine.