Part 26

Had she not understood very well that it was as beauty that she appealed to him, at first anyhow, an artistry of face and form plus a certain mood of appreciation or adoration or understanding which was of value to him? How often had he spoken of her lavender-lidded eyes, the whiteness and roundness of her arms, the dark gold of her hair, the sombre unrevealing blue of the iris of her eyes! Here strange it was that these seemed to enthrall and hold him at times, leaving him, if not weak, at least childlike in her hands. He had never seemed to weary of her and during all their days together she could feel his unreasoning joy in her.

_His one-time yellow curtains exchanged for green ones!_

That she had proved and remained irresistible to him was evidenced by his welcoming and gratified eyes, the manner in which he paused to survey her whenever she came near, seeming to re-estimate her every least attribute with loving interest. Indeed, he seemed to need her as much as she needed him, to yearn with an intense hunger over her as a thing of beauty,—he who to her was strength, beauty, ideals, power, all the substance of beauty and delight that she could crave.

_Yes, here was where they had come to gaze at the towers of the bridge beyond._

And so for over a year it was that they clung together, seeking to make of their lives an ideal thing. Only it was after she came into his life that he had begun to worry—and because of what? It was no hardship for him to live upon what he could make, but now that she had come, with her beauty and her beauty’s needs, it was no longer the same. As soon as she appeared he had seemed to sense his inefficiency as a creator of means. Bowdler, the wealthy dealer, had once told him that if he pleased him with something it might be worth five hundred dollars. Five hundred dollars! But when he took a painting to Bowdler he said he was overstocked, had too many of his things on hand—the very things that to-day—(now that Vivian was gone) —were selling for as much as ten and twelve thousand! And a single one of all those now being sold would have made them both happy for a whole year or more!

_He had called this tree her parasol!_

And she had been able to do so little for him! Realizing how little life had done for him she had decided then and there that all her efforts must be bent toward correcting this injustice. Life owed him more. And so it was that at last she had turned to the stage and sought earnestly, day after day and week after week, only to obtain very little of all she needed to make them happy, a small part in one of Wexford’s many productions, he of the comedies and farces and beauty shows. Yet after some effort she had made him admit that she was distinctive and that he could use her. But then had come that long wait of nearly three months before the work began! And in the meantime what labor, the night and day work of rehearsals and appearances, the trying to get back to him each afternoon or night. And he had been so patient and hopeful and helpful, waiting for her after late hours of rehearsal to walk home with her and encouraging her in every way. And yet always there was a tang of something unreal about it all, hopes, as she so truly feared, that were never to be realized, dreams too good to come true. The hours had flown. The very pressure of his hand had suggested paradise, present and yet not to be.

_She must be returning now. It was not wise for her to sit here alone._

And while those three months were dragging their slow days she had borrowed what money she could to keep them going. She had even borrowed from her mother! Yet they had been happy, wandering here and there, he always rejoicing in the success which her work promised to bring her. The studios facing the great park where she now lived at which they had looked, he seeming to think they were not for such as he. (The creatures who really dwelt there!)

_Yes, she must be going. His train was due at four._

And then at last, her trial period was over, Wexford had complimented her and her salary had been increased. She had begun to buy things for Vivian and his studio, much as he protested. But best of all for her the hope of better days still to come, greater fame for herself and so better days for Vivian, a real future in which he was to share—money,—comfort for them both.

“_To the apartment, Fred._”

And then—In spite of all her wishes and fears, had come the necessity for her to go on the road with the show. And owing to their limited means he was compelled to remain behind. Worse, despite the fact that each knew that every thought was for the other, the thought of separation tortured them both. Wherever she was there was the thought of him, alone, at his easel and brooding. And herself alone. It had seemed at times as though she must die unless this separation could be ended.

_If only Harry were not coming into her life again!_

But it was not ended—for weeks. And then one day, after a brief silence had come the word that he had been ill. A wave of influenza was sweeping the city and had seized him. She was not to worry. But she did worry—and returned immediately, only to find him far along the path which he was never to retrace. He was so ill. And worse, a strange despondency based on the thought that he was never to get well, had seized him. He had felt when she left, or so he said, that something were sure to happen. They might not ever, really, be together again. It had been so hard for him to do without her.

He had added that he was sorry to be so poor a fighter, to bring her back from her work. Her work! And he ill!

_The immense wall these hotels made along the park!_

And then against the utmost protest of her soul had come the end, a conclusion so sudden and unexpected that it had driven despair like metal into her very soul. Hour after hour and under her very eyes, her protesting if not restraining hands and thoughts, he had grown weaker. Though he knew, he seemed to wish to deny it, until at last his big dear eyes fixed upon her, he had gone, looking as though he wished to say something.

_This wretchedly wealthy West Side!_

It was that look, the seeking in it, that wishing to remain with her that was written there, that had haunted her and did still. It was as though he had wished to say: “I do not want to go! I do not want to go!”

And then, half-dead, she had flung herself upon him. With her hands she had tried to draw him back, until she was led away. For days she was too ill to know, and only his grave—chosen by strangers!—had brought it all back. And then the long days! Never again would life be the same. For the first time in her life she had been happy. A bowl of joy had been placed in her eager fingers, only to be dashed from them. Yes, once more now she was alone and would remain so, thrust back upon herself. And worse, with the agonizing knowledge of what beauty might be. Life had lost its lustre. What matter if others told of her beauty, if one or many sought to make her life less bare?

_This stodgy porter always at the door in his showy braid! Why might not such as he die instead?_

But then her mother and sister, learning of her despair, had come to her. Only since there was nothing that any pleasure, or aspect of life could offer her, the days rolled drearily,—meaninglessly. And only because of what was still missing in her mother’s life, material comfort, had she changed. It had been with the thought of helping her mother that after a year she had returned to the city and the stage, but exhausted, moping, a dreary wanderer amid old and broken dreams.

By degrees of course she had managed to pick up the threads of her life again. Who did not? And now nature, cynical, contemptuous of the dreams and longings which possess men, now lavished upon her that which she and Vivian had longed for in vain. Fame? It was hers. Money? A Score of fortunes had sought her in vain. Friendship? She could scarcely drive it from the door. She was successful.

But what mattered it now? Was it not a part of the routine, shabby method of life to first disappoint one—sweat and agonize one—and then lavish luxury upon one,—afterwards?

“_I want nothing. And if any one calls, I am not in._”

And so it was that after a time Harry descending upon her with his millions, and seeking solace for himself through her sympathy, she had succumbed to that—or him—as a kindly thing to do. He too had confessed to a wretched dole of difficulties that had dogged his early years. He too had been disappointed in love, comfort—almost everything until too late. In his earliest years he had risen at four in a mill-town to milk cows and deliver milk, only later to betake himself, barefooted and in the snow, to a mill to work. Later still he had worked in a jewelry factory, until his lungs had failed. And had then taken to the open road as a peripatetic photographer of street children in order to recover his health. But because of this work—the chemistry, and physics of photography—he had interested himself in chemistry and physics—later taking a “regular job,” as he phrased it, in a photographic supply house and later still opening a store of his own. It was here that he had met Kesselbloom, who had solved the mystery of the revolving shutter and the selenium bath. Financing him and his patents, he had been able to rise still more, to fly really, as though others were standing still. The vast Dagmar Optical and Photographic Company. It was now his, with all its patents. And the Baker-Wile Chemical Company. Yes, now he was a multimillionaire, and lonely—as lonely as she was. Strange that he and she should have met.

“_No, I will not see any one._”

So now, through her, he was seeking the youth which could be his no more. Because of some strange sense of comradeship in misery, perhaps, they had agreed to share each other’s unhappiness!

“_You say Mr. Harris telephoned from the station?_”

Yes, as he had told her in his brooding hours, at fifty it had suddenly struck him that his plethora of wealth was pointless. As a boy he had not learned to play, and now it was too late. Already he was old and lonely. Where lay his youth or any happiness?

And so now—nearly icy-cold the two of them, and contemning life dreams—they were still facing life together. And here he was this day, at her door or soon would be, fresh from financial labors in one city and another. And returning to what? With a kind of slavish and yet royal persistence he still pursued her—to comfort—as well as to be comforted, and out of sheer weariness she endured him. Perhaps because he was willing to await her mood, to accept the least crumb of her favor as priceless. The only kinship that existed between them was this unhappy youth of his and her sympathy for it, and his seeming understanding of and sympathy for the ills that had beset her. Supposing (so his argument had run) that the burden of this proposed friendship with him were to be made very light, the lightest of all burdens, that upon closer contact he proved not so hopeless or dull as he appeared, could she not—would she not—endure him? (The amazing contrarieties and strangenesses of things!) And so friendship, and later marriage under these strange conditions. Yet she could not love him, never had and never would. However it might have seemed at first—and she did sympathize with and appreciate him—still only because of her mother and sister and the fact that she herself needed some one to fall back upon, a support in this dull round of living, had caused her to go on as long as she had.

_How deserted that wading-pool looked at evening, with all the children gone!_

And now at this very moment he was below stairs waiting for her, waiting to learn whether she had smiled or her mood had relaxed so that he might come up to plead afresh for so little as she could give—her worthless disinterested company somewhere!

Well, perhaps it was unfair to serve one so who wished nothing more than to be kind and who had striven in every way for several years now to make himself useful if not agreeable to her, and yet—True, she had accepted of his largess, not only for herself but for her mother; but had she not had things of her own before that? And had she not been content? Was it charity from her or from him?

And still—

_Those darkening shadows in the sky in the east!_

And yet it was always “Ulrica” here and “Ulrica” there. Did she so much as refer to an old-time longing was it not he who attempted to make amends in some way or to bring about a belated fulfilment? Vivian’s painting now in the museum, the talk as to his worth, his monument but now being erected—to whom, to whom were those things due—this belated honoring of her darling—?

“_Oh, well, tell him to come up. And you may lay out my green evening dress, Olga._”

XII

THE VICTOR

I

Some excerpts from an article on the late J. H. Osterman, by C. A. Gridley, Chief Engineer of the Osterman Development Company. This article appeared in the Engineering Record, for August last.

“My admiration for the late J. H. Osterman was based on his force and courage and initiative, rather than upon his large fortune and the speed with which he had accumulated it after he had passed the age of forty. Mr. Osterman was not always a pleasant person to be near. Not that he was given to violent rages, but in the prosecution of his various enterprises he had the faculty of giving one the impression that but a fraction of his thoughts was being revealed and that he was sitting apart and in judgment upon one, as it were, even while he talked. He had the habit of extracting the most carefully thought-out opinions of all those about him, and when all had been said of shaking his head and dismissing the whole matter as negligible, only to make use of the advice in some form later. At such times he was apt to convince himself, and quite innocently, I am sure, that his final opinion was his own.

“In so far as I could judge from hearsay and active contact with him for a period of something like fourteen years, Mr. Osterman was one who required little if any rest and at all times much work to keep him content. His was an intense and always dominant personality. Even after he had passed the age of sixty-five, when most men of means are content to rest and let others assume the strenuous burdens of the world, he was always thinking of some new thing to do. It was only the week before he died, stricken while walking upon his verandah, that he was in my office with a plan to subsidize the reigning authorities of a certain minor Asiatic state, in order that certain oil and other properties there might be developed under peaceful conditions. A part of this plan contemplated a local army to be organized and equipped and maintained at his expense. Of a related nature was his plan for the double-screw platform descents and exits for the proposed New York-New Jersey traffic tunnel, which he appears to have worked out during the spring which preceded his sudden demise and plans for which he was most anxious to have this department prepare in order that they might be submitted to the respective states. It is hardly needful to state, since the fact is generally known, that those plans have been accepted. Of a related nature were those Argentine-Chilean Trans-Andean railway projects so much discussed in the technical engineering as well as the trade papers of a few years since, and which recently have been jointly financed by the two governments. Only the natural tact and diplomacy of a man like Mr. Osterman, combined with his absolute genius for detecting and organizing the natural though oftentimes difficult resources of a country, would have been capable of making anything out of that very knotty problem. It was too much identified with diplomacy and the respective ambitions and prejudices of the countries involved. Yet it was solved and he succeeded in winning for his South American organization the confidence and friendship of the two governments.”

II

The facts concerning the founding and development of the fortune of the late J. H. Osterman, as developed by C. B. Cummings, quondam secretary to Mr. Osterman, special investigator for E. X. Bush, of counsel for the minority stockholders of the C. C. and Q. L., in their suit to compel the resale of the road to the original holders and the return of certain moneys alleged to have been illegally abstracted by J. H. Osterman and Frank O. Parm, of Parm-Baggott and Company, and by him set forth in his reminiscences of Mr. Bush and the Osterman-Parm-C. C. & Q. L. imbroglio.

* * * * *

1. The details of the Osterman-De Malquit matter were, as near as I have been able to gather, or recall, since I was Mr. Osterman’s secretary until that time, as follows: De Malquit was one of the many curb brokers in New York dabbling in rubber and other things at the time Osterman returned from Honduras and executed his very dubious coup. The afternoon before De Malquit killed himself—and this fact was long held against Mr. Osterman in connection with his sudden rise—he had come to Osterman’s office in Broad Street, and there, amid rosewood and mahogany and an unnecessary show of luxury which Osterman appeared to relish even at that time, had pleaded for time in which to meet a demand for one hundred thousand dollars due for ten thousand shares of Calamita Rubber, which Osterman then entirely controlled and for which he was demanding the par or face value. And this in spite of the fact that it had been selling on “curb” only the day before for seven and one-fourth and seven and three-fourths. De Malquit was one of those curb brokers whom Osterman, upon coming to New York and launching Calamita (which was built on nothing more solid than air), had deliberately plotted to trap in this way. Unwitting of Osterman’s scheme, he had sold ten thousand shares of Calamita on margin at the above low price without troubling to have the same in his safe, as Osterman well knew. That was what Osterman had been counting on and it had pleased him to see De Malquit, along with many others just at that moment, in the very same difficult position. For up to that day Calamita, like many another of its kind, had been a wildcat stock. Only “wash sales” were traded in by brokers in order to entrap the unwary from the outside. They traded in it without ever buying any of it. It had to fluctuate so that the outsider might be induced to buy, and that was why it was traded in. But when it did fluctuate and the lamb approached, he was sold any quantity he wished, the same being entered upon their books as having been sold or bought on his order. When a quotation sufficiently low to wipe out the margin exacted had been engineered among friends, the lamb was notified that he must either post more money to cover the decline or retire. In quite all cases the lamb retired, leaving the broker with a neat profit.

This was the very situation upon which Osterman had been counting to net him the fortune which it eventually did, and overnight at that. Unknown to the brokers, he had long employed agents whose business it was to permit themselves to be fleeced for small sums in order that these several brokers, growing more and more careless and finding this stock to be easy and a money-maker, should sell enough of it without actually having it in their safes to permit him to pounce upon them unexpectedly and make them pay up. And so they did. The promoters of the stock seeming indifferent or unable to manage their affairs, these fake sales became larger and larger, a thousand and finally a ten thousand share margin sale being not uncommon. When the stage was set the trap was sprung. Overnight, as it were, all those who at Osterman’s order had bought the stock on margin (and by then some hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth had been disposed of) decided that they would not lose their margins but would follow up their cash with more and take the stock itself, holding it as an investment. It then became the duty of these brokers to deliver the stock within twenty-four hours or take the consequences—say, a petition in bankruptcy or a term in jail. Naturally there was a scrambling about to find any loose blocks of the stock. But these had been carefully garnered into the safe of Mr. Osterman, who was the sole owner of the stock, and they were compelled to hurry eventually to him. Here they were met by the genial eye of the cat that is expecting the mouse. They wanted Calamita, did they? Well, they could have it, all they wanted ... at par or a little more. Did that seem harsh, seeing that it had been selling only the day before for seven and three-fourths or seven-eighths? Sorry. That was the best he could do. They could take it at that price or leave it.

Naturally there was a panic among those who were short. The trick was obvious, but so was the law. Those who could, pocketed their losses without undue complaint and departed; some who could not, and were financially unimportant, decamped, leaving Osterman’s agents to collect as best they might. Only one, Mr. De Malquit, finding himself faced by complications which he could not meet, took his own life. He had unfortunately let himself in for much more money than had the others and at a time when he could least stand the strain.

The day De Malquit came to see Osterman, he was behind his desk expecting many, and because, as I afterwards learned from Mr. Osterman himself, Mr. De Malquit had been so wary, making agreements at first, which made it hard to trap him, Osterman saw him as one of those who had made it most difficult for him to win, and therefore deserving to be sheared the closest. “One hundred per share, take it or leave it,” was his only comment in reply to Mr. De Malquit’s statement that he found himself in a bit of a hole and would like to explain how a little time would see him through.

“But, Mr. Osterman,” I recall De Malquit replying, “I haven’t so much now, and I can’t get it. These shares were being quoted at seven and three-fourths only yesterday. Can’t you let me off easier than that, or give me a few months in which to pay? If I could have six months or a year—I have some other matters that are pressing me even more than this. They will have to come first, but I might pull through if I had a little time.”

“One hundred, on the nail. That’s the best I can do,” Osterman replied, for I was in the room at the time. And then signaled me to open the door for him.

But at that Mr. De Malquit turned and bent on him a very troubled look, which, however, did not move Mr. Osterman any. “Mr. Osterman,” he said, “I am not here to waste either your time or mine. I am in a corner, and I am desperate. Unless you can let me have some of this stock at a reasonable price I am done for. That will bring too much trouble to those who are near and dear to me for me to care to live any longer. I am too old to begin over again. Let me have some of it now. To-morrow will be too late. Perhaps it won’t make any difference to you, but I won’t be here to pay anybody. I have a wife who has been an invalid for two years. I have a young son and daughter in school. Unless I can go on—” He turned, paused, swallowed, and then moistened his lips.

But Mr. Osterman was not inclined to believe any broker or to be worked by sentiment. “Sorry. One hundred is the best I can do.”