Bucking the Tiger/Chapter 12
CHAPTER XII
EMILY STEEVES
OVER-NIGHT the year had leaped into the softness of full summer, the summer of the Northwest, green and golden, scented with the perfume of pine and rhododendron, but with a cool, fresh tang to it which spoke of the rolling, yellow fields of the Palouse to the east, of the open sea beyond the western range, of granite peaks and blue- glittering snow far to the north.
Graham was swinging down the street, head erect, arms a little akimbo. He looked at the green tracery of the trees and at the coppery reflections of the sun in the windows. The whole atmosphere seemed drenched in powdered gold, and he decided that life was worth the living.
Years of worry and shame seemed to have dropped from his shoulders. He was broke no more. He felt again as on that day when he had received his majesty's commission, and so he swung along easily, freely, an imaginary cavalry sabre clanking behind him on the pavement.
Last night he had received the draft from his father, and just a few minutes ago he had made it over to Houghton senior in payment for a majority interest in the shares of the Western Crown.
The old financier had suppressed an emotional tear at sight of the draft. He had shaken Graham warmly by the hand.
"Well done, my young friend!" he exclaimed, "exceedingly well done! I turn over the control of this company to you with a certain amount of regret. But no—no—I know that you will follow in my footsteps. Rectitude, honesty, the finer, nobler business ethics—let these be your motto! Take this stock, my boy, and God bless you!"
He had paused for a moment, seemingly overcome by his own emotional eloquence; then he had continued in a more matter-of-fact voice. "I suppose you'll want to call a stock-holders' meeting very soon, to have the new directors voted into office?"
"Yes."
"I suppose Macdonald will be the new president of the company?"
"Macdonald be damned!" Graham had interrupted savagely. "What the deuce has Macdonald to do with all this?"
The old financier had smiled. Of course, if the other still wished to keep up the farce that he had bought the stock for himself and not for Macdonald, it made no difference to him.
"All right, all right," he had said soothingly. "You elect whom you please. You have the majority of the stock. There are a few loose shares for which I hold the power of attorney. I'll glady endorse them over to you so's you can vote them as you please. And then of course there are a few shares owned by Pat Kenny. You'll rule that meetings my boy. You'll be able to appoint as directors whom you please. I suppose you'll go over the books of the company?"
"Yes; during the next few days. Meanwhile I'll be very much obliged if you'll have one of your stenographers send out the regular notifications for the stockholders' meeting."
"Surely," Houghton had replied, "I'll do that little thing for you."
Graham had left, and Houghton had looked after him, shaking his head wistfully.
"The poor young fish!" he had thought, as he rang for his bookkeeper to deposit the draft at the bank. "The poor canned sardine! The poor lemon-sucker! Well, youth must learn, and age must teach him, and it's right that teacher should be paid!"
But Graham, as he walked down Riverside Avenue, did not feel poor at all. On the contrary, he felt rich. He imagined that he was holding Big Business by the tail; and, by Jupiter, he said to himself, he had jolly well spoilt Ritchie Macdonald's plans. So he felt independent and very important. He was at peace with all the world.
He was about to turn into Murgattroyd's drug-store to telephone to his countryman Hillyer that the Western Crown deal was an accomplished fact, when he found himself face to face with Emily Steeves. Immediately a great rage rose in his throat. The memory of that day in the manicure shop when Macdonald had knocked him down came back to him, also the memory of that other day when Macdonald had turned him out of the club after refusing to buy himself free from the suicide compact.
And all because of this slip of a girl, he said to himself; and he glared at her.
"Will you kindly let me pass?" the girl said crisply.
Her voice brought him to his senses. He controlled his rising fury, and lifted his hat with mock politeness.
"Why, Miss Steeves, as I live!" he exclaimed with well-simulated surprise. "How do you do? My word, but you do look a stunner this morning; perfectly toppin' frock, and what a little dear of a hat; imported French model, I warrant! By Jingo, manicuring seems to be paying well these days."
"Will you please let me pass?" the girl continued, but with a low voice, as she did not wish to create a disagreeable scene on the crowded street-corner.
Graham continued as if he had not heard her interruption.
"But I forgot; you've given up the manicuring business. You're working for Ritchie Macdonald now, aren't you?"
The girl did not reply. She did not even look at Graham. Her free, independent, young body stood up straight. But her eyes flashed fire under her heavy coil of golden-brown hair, and her little feet tapped the pavement impatiently.
"Deucedly droll," Graham continued with a smile, "also rather a bit thick, don't you think, of old Mac to—oh—to hit me when I wasn't looking—to do all that mammoth twaddling stunt about morality and that sort of thing—and now you and he— Oh, well! You tell him that I spoilt his little plan, that I bought control of the Western Crown. I've no doubt he'll leave you some money, my dear. But if you are looking for a real bargain in eligible and slightly festive gentlemen, I beg to recommend myself. Look here, Miss—"
Suddenly a heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
"Shut up, you damned cad," a hard voice whispered in his ear.
Graham turned pale with terror. Macdonald had come unseen from the drug-store. Graham tried to wrench himself free. He wanted to run away. But the other's grip was one of steel.
"See here," Macdonald continued in a voice which was as cold and passionless as that of Fate, "I knocked you down once for bothering Miss Steeves. If you do it again, I'll kill you. I'll kill you with my bare hands. Get that?"
There was a short, tense pause. Suddenly a sort of courage came to Graham, the courage of a trapped rat.
"Right-oh," he said with a fair imitation of nonchalance; he was silent for a moment; then he continued with an ugly laugh. "You'd just as soon swing for murder to-day as to blow your brains out on the first of April, wouldn't you? For, by gad, I'll see to it that you kill yourself. If you should try to welsh, I'll advertise you all over this country as a coward and a welsher. I'll—"
Again Macdonald's voice came cold and passionless.
"Keep your filthy mouth shut, Graham, or I'll kill you now."
Graham stared at him, utterly fascinated. For there was murder in the other man's fine, dark eyes, in the thin, quivering mouth, in the very angle of the blue, square chin. Macdonald's whole powerful body seemed tense, bunched, like that of a wild animal, ready to spring and tear. The Englishman turned red and pale by turns; he swallowed hard once or twice, but he was silent.
Macdonald whirled him round by the shoulders.
"Go!" he commanded curtly; and the other went without a word.
Macdonald turned to the girl.
"Let's go up to the office," he said, breathing heavily.
She walked silently by his side. Half a dozen troublesome questions were on her mind. What had Graham meant by his reference to the control of the Western Crown stock? What had he meant when he had said that he would advertise Macdonald as a coward and a welsher if he refused to blow his brains out on the first of April?
She was positive that she had not misunderstood the words. So she looked up questioningly at the tall man who was stalking by her side. But she refrained from speaking when she saw the set, tense expression in his handsome, aquiline face.
Still, her thoughts bothered her. Macdonald had told her that he was a very sick man, that the doctor gave him only a few months more to live. And he had handled that tall, strong Englishman as he would a baby! Also, what was all that talk about suicide, and about the money he would leave her? What did it all mean? She was thoroughly mystified.
They reached the office in silence, and in silence Macdonald sat down at his desk.
He was deeply moved, profoundly disturbed. He loved the girl with all his heart. She was dearer to him than the dwellings of kings. But he would have to leave her behind him; well off as to money, no doubt, but unprotected. She had told him that she was all alone in the world; she was so pretty and soft, she would be prey for such men as Graham.
He knew that the Northwest was full of such men, adventurers, wastrels, English and Eastern remittance men, the spawn of the social gutters of New York and London and Boston, men who had left their native towns for the towns' good. He knew them. He had herded with them; in mines and ranches and lumber-camps and gambling dens.
Of course he supposed he could still buy himself free. He wouldn't have to commit suicide. But then he would be as penniless as before; he would have to begin all over again; and the girl—she would find out all about his miserable past, how he had lied to her! So his thoughts went in a mad circle, and he was very unhappy.
Only of one thing he was sure: he would not welsh!
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Macdonald."
He looked up with a start. The girl was standing close by his desk.
"Yes, Miss Emily?" he forced himself to say in a matter-of-fact voice.
"I must ask you a question," she continued haltingly. "I—I simply must."
"Curiosity killed a cat," he replied, with a forced laugh.
But her face remained unmoved.
"This is perfectly serious."
"All right," he said with a sigh, "go on."
"Mr. Graham asked me to tell you that he had spoilt your plans, that he had bought control of the Western Crown."
Macdonald smiled.
"Thanks for the information, Miss Emily," he replied, "but it is really quite indifferent to me who owns control of that particular concern." He said it with such evident truth and sincerity that the girl was convinced, and rightly convinced, that the news meant nothing to him; but his subsequent words caused her to look up sharply. "I can't see why Graham bothered to send me the message—of course my life's insured with the Western Crown," he concluded musingly.
There was a short pause.
"Mr. Macdonald," the girl continued steadily and forcing him to look at her, "what did Mr. Graham mean when he threatened to—to—when he told you to—oh—that remark of his that you would have to blow out your brains?"
Macdonald tried to ward off the impending catastrophe with a light word.
"I guess Graham was just talking through his hat," he said, blushing furiously. "Don't you bother your pretty little head about men's quarrels."
Emily Steeves stamped her foot with a little show of temper.
"I've got to know, Mr. Macdonald! I've just got to!"
"Why?"
"Because—" She paused, visibly embarrassed, then continued recklessly, "because it has got to do with you."
He looked at her, his face at once clouding and softening.
"Like me as much as all that?" he asked slowly.
She blushed a little. Her grey eyes were very still and dark, as though she were pursuing something in her thoughts which was both tender and hurting.
"Yes," she said bravely, "I do like you."
Macdonald rose abruptly and walked toward the window. A gentle breeze came from the outside, bringing with it the velvety softness of the sky, the languor of the summer-hot earth; suggestions of infinite repose, the golden gift of endless dreams.
He walked back to where she stood, and took her unresisting hands in his.
"Don't bother, dear little girl," he said softly. "Don't bother about me." He gave a short laugh. "I guess everything'll come out all right in the wash."
There was another short pause. He picked up his hat.
"I guess I'll go next door and see Marshall Houghton about—about some business deal," he said with a woful imitation of his usual business manner.
But the girl stuck to her point.
"You haven't answered me. If you don't tell me I—I shall ask Walsh! I shall ask the count!" Her voice rose a little. "If you don't tell me, I shall ask Mr. Graham himself."
"You—you'll ask Graham?" He made a grimace like a man who hears a false note.
"Yes."
"You mean that?"
"Yes."
"All right." His voice was very hard. But there was no anger in it; only a strange despair, a strange fatalism. "Graham spoke the truth." He spoke slowly, distinctly. "On the first of April of next year I shall kill myself."
She opened her eyes as wide as they would go. Her lips trembled a little. She was silent for several dragging moments. When finally words came to her, she spoke as if appealing to a third person; but her eyes never left Macdonald's face.
"Suicide—suicide—but why?"
He did not look at her. He was staring into nothingness, grim, frowning, his teeth clenched tight.
"But why?" Her voice came to him again as from a great distance.
Suddenly his concentrated, frowning repression relaxed. He turned and looked at her. He spoke wearily, hopelessly.
"Because I love you, dear. Because I love you with all my heart and soul. Because all my thoughts are of you. Because I adore you. Because you are everything to me that is decent and sweet and worth while. Because you are dearer to me than life itself."
She walked straight up to him and put her hands on his shoulders.
"Ritchie—Ritchie, dear!" she said in a low voice. "But is that a reason why you want to kill yourself—just because you love me?" She smiled. "But, my dear don't you think it would be fair to ask me if I—if I—" She stopped, blushing furiously.
A profound silence fell. Macdonald was struggling with himself. He bent over her and kissed her, very gently.
"Listen, dearest," he said. "I'll tell you the whole story."
And he did. He told her of his wasted years, of his despair, of his resolve to end it all, of the suicide compact, and how he had cheated so as to draw the losing ace; how fortune had smiled on him so that by gambling he had increased the three thousand dollars which the others had contributed; how he had liked her first, and then loved her; how he had made up his mind to accumulate a decent-sized fortune and leave it to her on his death; how later on the others had offered to let him off the suicide compact on condition that he would turn all his money over to them.
He did not spare himself in the telling. He spoke with utter, merciless truth. And when, he had finished, he waited like a man who expects sentence to be passed.
"Ritchie, dear," the girl turned to him, "you said that all your life you've been a wastrel?"
"Yes."
"You said that you'll never amount to anything?"
"Yes," he said bitterly. "It's the truth, isn't it?"
"It is not the truth," she replied. "Why, look about you," she continued, pointing at the office with its many evidences of busy prosperity. "You've made good, very good, and you don't even know it."
He laughed harshly.
"You're a loyal little dear, Emily. But you can't fool me, and I refuse to fool myself. I've a fair hunk of money in the bank and quite a collection of good investments, I know. But what of it? It's the beginnings that count. I made my first stake by gambling away my life; I increased it by playing poker, over at the club, with old Pat Kenny. Fine foundations for a fortune, aren't they?"
"Sure they are!" she replied with her straight, feminine logic. "They all gamble out here in the Northwest. I'm a Western girl, born and bred. I know. Take the men who put up money in the Bunker Hill when it was nothing but a prospect hole. My father told me about that. Take the men who put up for the Crows Nest Coal, the LeRoy, the Treadwell up in Alaska. Take those who bought timber claims on speculation, and those who bought desert land and found oil. They all gambled, didn't they? And then, after they made a little stake by gambling, they built up their fortunes. Why, dear, you've done the same. You gambled—and you won. I don't know New York," she continued, musing. "I've never been farther east than Butte. But I bet the big men back there gamble as much as they do out here."
Macdonald smiled.
"You bet they do, honey."
"Well, there you are," she concluded triumphantly. "You've no reason to be ashamed because you made your stake by gambling."
"Gosh, you're a corking little counsel for the defence," he said with a laugh.
He walked up to her and tried to take her in his arms. But she moved away.
"Why—Emily!" he exclaimed with surprise. "I thought you—you—"
"I do, Ritchie," she said, and her voice was just a little hard. "I do love you, if that's what you mean. But what about the first of April of next year?"
"What d' you mean?"
"You know what I mean," she replied, perfectly serious. "It's quite useless to marry a man who intends to commit suicide. Of course, you can pay off those men and have yourself released from the suicide compact. But then I'd have no respect for a man who lets himself be blackmailed. And I'd hate a man who welshes."
Macdonald looked aghast.
"But for Heaven's sake, child, what do you want me to do?"
She gave him a mocking little curtsy.
"I don't want you to kill yourself. I don't want you to let yourself be blackmailed, and I don't want you to welsh."
"But—how—" he stammered; "how in the name of—"
"That's for you to find out, Ritchie, dear," she said. She blew him a kiss from the tips of her fingers and left the room.
Macdonald looked after her in silence.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he said with utter, ringing conviction.