Part 12

Men are always wounded in a vital spot when they are wounded by jealousy, and Ashton Welles was particularly vulnerable because he lived in only two places--his office and his home. He did not have other houses of refuge to which his soul could retreat--like music or literature or art--in case of need. He had been so busy winning success that he had not had time for anything else. He had worked for the aggrandizement of the personal fortune of Ashton Welles. When circumstances and that reputation for luck, shrewdness, and caution, which is in itself a golden sagacity, finally placed him, still a young man, at the head of the VanTwiller Trust Company, David Soulett, one of the directors, remarked: “Welles has married the company; but we don't yet know whether he is to be the company's husband or whether the company is to be his wife!” And a fellow-director, who had been in profitable deals with Welles, retorted, “Well, I call it an ideal match!”

Welles brought to the company what it needed and the presidency brought to Welles many opportunities--none of which he neglected. He saw the deposits increase tenfold--and his own fortune twentyfold. What might not have been politic in an individual playing a lone hand was altogether admirable in the head of a financial institution--his cold-bloodedness, for example, and the dehumanized attitude toward life habitually assumed by the principal cog-wheel in that intricate aggregation of cog-wheels known as a modern trust company. Being an excellent money-lender, he was an uninteresting human being. You lose much when you win money--for gold is hard and cold, and the enjoyment of life calls for softness and warmth. It is the appalling revenge capital takes on its self-called masters.

As he approached his fiftieth year Welles began to find that his isolation might be splendid, but that it was also damnably uncomfortable. Did you know that in certain millionaire households, where everything always runs very smoothly, the master gets to long for a burnt steak or the spilling of soup by the very competent servant? Welles, accustomed to the wonderfully comfortable life of a very rich bachelor in New York, desired a home where everything need not be so comfortable. And as his fortune became a matter of several millions it began--as swollen fortunes always do, also in revenge!--to take on the aspect of a monument, something to admire during the monument-builder's lifetime and to endure impressively afterward! With the desire of permanence came the dream of all capitalists that makes them dynasts of gold--an heir to extend the boundaries of the family fortune! It was inevitable that Ashton Welles should grow to believe that, though the trust company's deposits were in other people's names, they really belonged to Ashton Welles, because they were merely the marble blocks of the Welles monument. The name of Welles must never cease to be identified with the work of Ashton the First!

Wherefore the need of an heir became almost an obsession with him, and with it came a quite human dissatisfaction with hotels and clubs, and trained nurses in times of illness. When a capitalist realizes clearly that, apart from his money-lending capacity, he has absolutely no power to bring tears to human eyes, he grows jealous of his own money. He wishes to be feared, though penniless, just as he would be loved, though a pauper. All these desires combined to force Ashton Welles into a decision. He had kept up a desultory sort of friendship with Mrs. Deering, the widow of his predecessor in the presidency of the trust company, and Anne Deering was the girl he knew best of all--though he really did not know her at all.

The Deerings had not been fortunate in their investments; in fact, the Deering holdings of Van-Twiller stock had been benevolently assimilated at one-fifth of their value by Ashton Welles himself during one of those panics that make reckless persons cease being reckless ever after. It was not very difficult for Anne Deering to be made to feel that she could save her mother's life and assure ease and comfort for herself forever by marrying Mr. Ashton Welles, who at fifty was one of those men whom old friends invariably classify as well-preserved. To be just, he was really distinguished-looking and had a sort of uniform urbanity that made him at least unobjectionable.

He was also very rich. She married him. She learned to like him. He grew to love her!

She was a doll--beautiful and utterly useless; but it was this very uselessness that made Ashton Welles worship her. This financier, who in his office was not only a skilful bargain-driver, but preached and practised the religion of efficiency, in his home plunged into an orgy of utterly juvenile lovemaking. He reveled in his wooing, which he had to do after his marriage. He did not merely desire to have a wife--he must have a wife of an extreme femininity; she must be one of those womanly women who exist only in the imaginations of men of a tyrannical cast of mind. His life having been for years exclusively a money-making life, he became very selfish. And he continued to find his greatest pleasure in pleasing himself--only that he now best pleased himself by being a boy sweetheart; by achieving his puppy love at fifty and deeming it marvelously rejuvenating and therefore altogether admirable.

Very well! Now imagine that man, living for two years amid those pitifully evanescent illusions so cherished by middle-aged men of money who marry very young women of looks--imagine that man suddenly informed that he is no longer to be anything but an old man! And not only old, but deserted! Imagine that selfsame man brought face to face with the invincible Opponent of all old men--youth!

To Ashton Welles, sitting in his office, surrounded by glittering millions, there came the deadly chill of age--doubly cold from being surrounded by gold. In the twinkling of an eye all young men suddenly became redoubtable warriors, love-conquerors, irresistible as a force of nature--and as heartless! He was beaten by the universal victor--Time!

He stared fixedly at a photograph of his wife in an elaborately chased silver frame, but he did not see her. He saw ruins, as of a conflagration--the smoking débris of a destroyed home; and heaps of ashes--ashes everywhere! And in the rising puffs of smoke he saw faces of men--of young men--of very handsome young men!

Stewardson, the vice-president, walked in--the door was open, as usual. He saw his chief's face and was shocked into a quite human feeling of consternation.

“Great heavens, Mr. Welles, what is the matter?”

“Nothing!” said Ashton Welles. He suddenly felt an overwhelming impulse to hide his face from the sight of his fellow-men. He thought his forehead must show in black letters--_Fool!_ and--and--and ten thousand terrible legends that changed with each beat of his heart, and told what he had been and what had happened; and--yes--what was bound to happen!

“Nothing! Nothing!” he repeated, fiercely.

“Nothing, I tell you!” He was certain all the world knew his disgrace.

“Shall I call a doctor?”

“No! No!” he snarled. Call in the entire world and gloat at his discomfiture? He glanced at the vice-president. The impolitic alarm on Steward-son's face exasperated him. “What do you want? Damn it, what do you want?” It was almost a shriek.

“I wanted to consult with you about that Consolidated Cushion Tire bond issue--”

“Yes, yes! Well?”

“Have you decided whether to--”

“Yes! I mean--no! I mean--Wait! Ask Witter. I dictated a memorandum to him, I think. Yes, I did!”

He was making desperate efforts to speak calmly; but he stopped, because Stewardson, a dastard of thirty-two, suddenly grew to resemble young Mr. Francis Wolfe! Stewardson saw the gleam in Ashton Welles's eyes and felt that the president must have hated him all his life!

“I'll get it from Witter,” he said, and hastily left the room.

Welles stared wide-eyed at the open door for perhaps a full minute; always he saw ruins--smoke and ashes--ashes everywhere! And then he started up and squared his shoulders. He rang for an office-boy and said to him, “Tell Mr. Witter I've gone for the day”--Witter was his private secretary--and left the office.

He could not bear even to think of going home, for he now had no home! Therefore he went to Central Park and walked aimlessly about until his unaccustomed muscles compelled him to sit down. There he sat, thinking! After three hours he had grown sufficiently calm to believe himself when he called himself a fool for being jealous. Having convinced himself of his folly, he clutched eagerly at every opportunity to close his own ears to the whisperings of his own doubts. At length he went to his house, dressed as usual, and went to the Cosmopolitan Club to dine.

IX

A few minutes after Ashton Welles left his office, stabbed to the soul by the poisoned paragraphs of _Society Folk_ Jemingham sought Stewardson and told him he had decided to send some more gold-dust to the Assay Office. His own attendant, a young man, dark-haired and blue-eyed, who properly answered to the name of Sheehan, accompanied him. Stewardson, whose nerves had not recovered from the shock of Mr. Welles's behavior, decided that he, also, would go to the vaults.

“I want ten boxes sent to the Assay Office,” said Jemingham.

“Certainly, sir,” said the superintendent of the vaults, very obsequiously. To show how eager he was to please, he asked, “Any particular boxes, Mr. Jemingham?”

Immediately a half-formulated suspicion fleeted across the mind of the second vice-president of the VanTwiller Trust Company. How did they know what those boxes contained? How did they know that all of them were full of Yukon gold? How did they know anything about this man or about his treasure--his alleged treasure?

Almost immediately afterward, however, he reproached himself. Why, the man had deposited over a million--the proceeds of twenty of the boxes!

“Oh, take any ten,” said Jerningham--“the first ten. They are the easiest to take out.”

“The last ten!” said Stewardson, hastily, obeying an impulse that came upon him like a flash of lightning.

Jerningham turned and asked: “Why the last ten? They are away back, and--”

“I have my reasons,” smiled Stewardson--the smile of a man who knows something funny about you, but does not wish to tell it--not quite yet. It is the most exasperating smile known.

Jerningham looked at him a moment. Then he said, coldly: “Why not pick them out haphazard--one here and another there, as if you were sampling a mine and wanted to make sure they hadn't salted it on you?” He turned to the men and said, “Pick out ten at random, no two from the same place; and be sure they are not full of stable litter!”

Stewardson flushed, and whispered apologetically to the superintendent, “The more the boys work, the more grateful he will be.”

“Oh, he is very generous, anyhow,” said Sullivan, the superintendent, watching his helper and Sheehan pick out the ten boxes at random.

Stewardson accompanied Jerningham up-stairs and then excused himself long enough to say to a confidential clerk: “Follow Mr. Jerningham and his ten boxes of gold-dust, and find out what he does, how much he gets, and every detail of interest. Don't let him see you.”

The clerk found out and later reported to the vice-president that the ten boxes all contained Alaskan gold-dust, and that their value was $531,687, the boxes averaging a little better than fifty thousand dollars each. Stewardson then had the remaining boxes counted. There were one hundred and twenty-one left. They were worth over six million dollars. Jerningham ought to have the gold-dust coined and then deposit the proceeds in the trust company. The company would allow him two and a half per cent.--or maybe three per cent.--on the six millions. That would be one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year. The company could then loan the entire six millions, not having to bother with keeping a reserve like the national banks, and, the way the money-market was, the money could be loaned at five per cent. That would be three hundred thousand dollars a year.

Men properly must end in dust; but dust, when gold, should end in eagles. He would speak to Jerningham about it--one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year that Jerningham was not making--which was silly! And one hundred and twenty thousand a year the company was not making--which was a tragedy!

Ashton Welles sent word to the office on the following morning that he would not be down until late, if at all. He did not send word that he had decided to consult his lawyer about the _Society Folk_ article. He had received eight marked copies, addressed to him at his house in different handwritings, and he did not know that on his desk at the office there were a dozen more. Friends always tell you about anonymous attacks anonymously. They wait for them.

Jerningham seemed disappointed when he learned, at ten-thirty, that Mr. Welles might not come to the office at all. Stewardson came upon him looking disgruntled. That did not deter the vice-president from broaching the subject nearest his heart. “I'd like to ask you one question, Mr. Jerningham. Of course I know you must have a reason--a very good reason, too--”

“If the reason is good I'll confess,” said Jerningham, pleasantly.

“Well, I'd like to know what your reason is for not sending all your gold to the Assay Office?”

“My reason is that I want to make a lot of money later by not sending the gold to the Assay Office now. Remember my very words!”

“But how are you going to do it?” Stewardson could not help asking, because he was so puzzled that his sense of humor was paralyzed.

“By having the gold--that's how.”

“That's all right! But why don't you change it into coin? That way you can have it at a moment's notice.”

“My dear chap, do you know how many hours it will take the Assay Office, after I take my dust in there, to give me a check for the proceeds? I get ninety per cent, of the value at once. If I cash this gold now I'll spend it. I know it! I never could resist the temptation to spend--it is my one weakness. And if I spent it what would I have to show for the hardships of thirty years?”

“But why don't you deposit it with us? We'll allow you two and a half per cent. Or if you make it a time deposit we can do better than that by you. You know you can always get gold for it if you ask us for it.”

“I can, can I?” laughed Jerningham, with a sort of good-natured mockery. “How about 1907 and your old clearing-house certificates--eh? What?” Stewardson was nettled. So he permitted himself the supreme, all-conquering argument of business: “But you are losing one hundred and eighty thousand dollars a year by leaving your gold uncoined and undeposited.”

“I won't lose a year's interest, because it isn't going to take a year for the big panic to come.” Stewardson laughed--a kindly laugh. “For pity's sake, don't wait for that! Panics have a habit of not coming if expected. Just now everybody is bluer than indigo. You'd think the United States was on its last legs. Invest at once, and don't wait for the bargains at the funeral that may never come.”

“How sound is this institution?” Jerningham looked Stewardson full in the face.

The vice-president answered, smilingly, “Oh, I guess we'll weather the storm.”

“Then I'll buy more stock. Mr. Welles advised me to buy all I could get hold of. A wonderful man--”

“Yes, indeed,” acquiesced Stewardson, solemnly. “Wonderful! Great judgment!” pursued Jeming-ham, with a sort of boyish enthusiasm that made Stewardson think his superior had designs on the Klondike gold in the vaults. “He is so clear-cut--and never, never loses his head! To tell you the truth,” and Jerningham lowered his voice, “I used to think he was an icicle--the sort of man nothing can disturb; but, for all his calmness and imperturbability, he has a great warm heart and a great big brain!”

Stewardson had never before heard anybody accuse the president of the VanTwiller Trust Company of having any heart at all. Why had Welles taken the pains to pose before the Klondike miner as a philanthropist? And why had the imperturbable Ashton Welles been so perturbed the day before?

“Ablest man in this country!” said Stewardson, his mind wrapped in the folds of his unformulated mysteries and his own half-asked questions.

“So I'll get a little more of the stock,” said Jerningham.

“Go ahead! You can't go wrong,” Stewardson assured him; “in fact, you ought to send some of your gold to the Assay Office and--”

“What will you lend me on my gold--on the six millions I've got down-stairs?” asked Jerningham, with a frown. He looked intently at the vice-president with his cold, gray eyes, and Stewardson somehow fancied he saw a challenge in them; but he was an old bird at the game. He laughed and said, jovially:

“Not a penny!”

“I know it. It shows you how incompetent all these financial institutions are. You think you are doing your duty by being suspicious--what? Well, you don't unless you are intelligently suspicious. Never mind; you are only the vice-president. I'll buy the stock just the same.” And Jerningham laughed, exaggeratedly forgiving, and went away.

Later in the day, when Stewardson thought he might sell his own holdings of VanTwiller Trust stock to Jerningham and trust to luck to pick it up again here and there at a lower figure, he called up a firm of brokers who made a specialty of dealing in bank and trust-company stocks. He was surprised to learn that V.T. stock was scarce and thirty points higher. The vice-president called up specialists and heard the same story--the floating supply had been quietly bought.

“By whom?” he asked Earhart.

“You know very well!” retorted the last broker, in an aggrieved tone of voice.

“I do not!” Stewardson assured him.

“Well, it all goes into your office.”

“Mine?”

“Yes--yours! And it's paid by your checks. The name signed is Alfred Jerningham. Are you going to cut a melon? Just whisper!”

“Oh!” and Stewardson laughed. “What a suspicious man you are, Dave!”

In the alarmingly inexplicable frame of mind in which Ashton Welles was Stewardson did not feel like speaking to his superior about Jemingham's investment. There was no reason why the Klondiker should not buy all the VanTwiller Trust Company stock he could pay for; but a day or two afterward the vice-president learned that Jerningham had secured control, by purchase outright or by option, at prices ranging from three hundred and ninety-five to five hundred dollars a share, of twenty-two thousand shares. That was important for two reasons: In the first place it was more than Jerningham could pay for even if he sold all his gold-dust; and, secondly, such a block in unfriendly hands might work injury to the controlling clique. He decided to see the president; but he was told that Mr. Ashton Welles was engaged at that moment.

Jerningham was talking to him. They had exchanged greetings with much cordiality.

“Have you heard from Mrs. Welles?” asked the Alaskan.

“She hasn't arrived yet--”

“I know it. But I received a wireless from young Wolfe--”

“What did he say?” asked Ashton Welles before he knew it.

Jerningham looked mildly surprised. He answered:

“It was a funny message. He asked me to go to his room and get his trunks, and send all his belongings to London, as he had decided to stay there indefinitely.”

“Yes?” It was all Welles could say.

“So I wired back, 'Are you crazy?'”

“Did he answer that?”

“Yes.” Jerningham paused. Then he laughed.

“What did he answer?” queried Welles.

“Oh, he is crazy, all right. He answered, 'Yes--with joy! Please send trunks to Thornton's Hotel--'”

“What?” Ashton Welles rose to his feet, his face livid. It was the London hotel where Mrs. Deering lived, the hotel to which Mrs. Welles was going!

“What's the matter?” asked Jerningham, in amazement.

“N-nothing!” said Ashton Welles, huskily. He gulped twice. Then, having spent thirty-five years in Wall Street making money, he explained, “I've got a terrible toothache!” And he put his hand to his left cheek.

“I'm sorry!” said Jemingham so sympathetically that Welles, for all his distress--and nothing is so inherently selfish as suffering--felt a kindly feeling toward the man from Alaska. “Could I ask your advice about a business matter?”

“Certainly!”

Ashton Welles tried to smile. It was ghastly, but Jemingham did not remark it. He said, placidly:

“I've bought quite a little bunch of VanTwiller stock because you are its president, Mr. Welles. On my honor, that is my only reason. I've paid good prices, too; but you are worth it--to me!” And Jemingham beamed adoringly on the efficient president of the VanTwiller Trust Company.

Ashton Welles said, “Thank you!” and even tried to feel grateful to this queer character from the frozen North who was so naïve in his admiration--and envied him for not having a young wife who had sailed on the same steamer with an exceedingly attractive young man.

“I guess I'm all right in my purchase--what?”

“Oh yes!” said Welles. He was thinking of the _Ruritania_. It did not even occur to him that this Monte Cristo might be worth while to pluck.

“Thank you. I hope I didn't bother you. Good morning, Mr. Welles.”

“Good morning, Mr. Jemingham. Er--come in any time you think I can be of service to you.”

As Jemingham was leaving the president's office he almost bumped into the vice-president.

“You've bought quite a lot of our stock,” said

Stewardson, full of his errand. His voice had an accusing ring.

“Yes. I was just speaking to Mr. Welles about it.”

“And what did he say?”

“Ask him!” teased Jerningham, with a smile, and went away.

Stewardson felt it his duty to do exactly as Jerningham had mockingly suggested. It was an abnormal situation. That being the case, there was no regular provision--no indicated chapter and verse--for meeting it. The principal function of a chief in business is to supply answers to puzzled subordinates.

Ashton Welles was sitting back in his swivel chair. He was staring fixedly at a hook on the picture-molding that had been left there after the picture was taken away. He was thinking that if he employed private detectives in London he would have to hire them by cable. There are suspicions a man cannot help having and yet cannot set down in plain black and white. He cannot hint when he writes, for written instructions must always be explicit and categorical. That is why no love-letter of which the real meaning is to be read “between the lines” is ever satisfactory to the recipient.

Ashton Welles turned his head and, still frowning, asked Stewardson, sharply:

“Well, what is it?”

“It's about Jerningham. You know he has been buying our stock. But I thought you ought to know--”

He wished to tell the president what a big block the Alaskan had already secured. But the president, from force of habit, perhaps, or possibly by reason of the irritation of his nerves, assumed the usual financial attitude of omniscience:

“I know all about it,” he said. “Anything else you wish to say to me?”

“No, sir!” answered Stewardson, who felt rebuffed and now would not have turned in an alarm of fire if he had seen the place beginning to burn. He was, after all, human.

You cannot, in your lust for absolute power, make your subordinates into sublimated office-boys or decorative figureheads without paying the price some time. Stewardson was justified in assuming that Mr. Welles was worried about business--it was perfectly obvious; and it was a natural suspicion, also, that said deal must threaten destruction to the company since Ashton Welles was so eager to have poor Jerningham buy so much VanTwiller stock. Therefore Stewardson and his intimate friends, in order to be on the safe side, very promptly sold out their own holdings--to poor misguided Jerningham's brokers.