Part 16

Instantly there came to him the odor of sweet peas, and with it thoughts of summer, of a beautiful girl, of a soul-mate, of a wife. Love filled his being. He wished to love and be loved. He wished to be somebody's husband, so that he might begin to live the life he was to live until the day of his death!

He leaned back in his chair and again inhaled the fragrance of sweet peas--the odor that must mean kisses in the open; the inarticulate love-making of breezes and blossoms; the multitudinous whispers of midsummer nights heard by love-hungry ears. And then the music! There came the breaking of a heart about to cease beating and the sobbing crash of the brasses in the finale. It was almost more than Tom could bear.

Then the curtain fell and light flooded the house. People streamed out. Tom twisted and turned to see the face of the lady who made him think of the sweet peas, which made him think of love and marriage and children--but she was wrapped to the cheeks in a fur-edged opera-cloak and her head was covered with a black-lace wrap. He could not see her face; and after rivulets of people reached the main stream in the middle aisle he found himself hopelessly separated from her. He tried to jostle his way through. McWayne, his father's private secretary, suddenly happened to be there.

“Hello, Tom!” he said. “What's your rush?”

Tom saw that it was useless to pursue the phantom of sweet peas and dreams of love unless he vaulted over the stalls. McWayne's presence made him realize how his friends would be shocked by such actions.

“No hurry at all,” said Tom, who, after all, was a Merriwether. “Just wanted to smoke and to see whether I knew that girl.”

“I'll bet she's a pippin!” said McWayne, with a friendly smile. It irritated Tom.

“I don't know any of your friends,” said Tom, coldly; “lady friends and pippins, fellows like you call them, I believe.”

That was what convinced McWayne that the worst was to be feared about poor Tom, who was so considerate and amiable when normal. Poor Tom! McWayne telephoned to the waiting E. H. Merriwether, whose only reply was to ask the private secretary to arrange to have Dr. Frauenthal, the great specialist, at breakfast in the Merriwether house the next morning, without fail.

It was a common occurrence for Dr. Frauenthal to meet--under false pretenses, as it were--persons whose sanity was suspected by fond relatives who dared not openly acknowledge their suspicions. He was a man whose eyes had been compared to psychic corkscrews, with which he brought the patient's secret thoughts to the light of day. Some one said of him that, by inducing a feeling of guilt and detection among the predatory rich, he was able to exact colossal fees from them. He was the man who had made Ordway Blake give up making six millions a year in Wall Street by quitting the game. Mr. Blake was still alive.

Frauenthal was introduced to Tom as a gentleman whose advice “E. H.” desired. The men conversed on various topics apparently haphazard; but in reality Tom, without knowing it, was answering test questions. The answers could not conclusively prove insanity, but they would certainly show whether a more thorough examination was necessary.

Mr. Merriwether and Frauenthal left the house together. They entered the waiting brougham. The great little railroad magnate gave the address of the doctor's office to the footman, then turned to Frauenthal and said, calmly:

“Well, what do you think of him?”

His voice was steady and cold; his face imperturbable; his eyes were fixed with intelligent scrutiny on the specialist's, but his fingers tightly clutched a rolled morning newspaper.

Frauenthal turned his clinical stare on E. H. Merriwether, as though the financier were really the patient. He swept the little man's face--the eyes, the mouth, and the poise--and then let his eyes linger on the clenched fingers about the newspaper.

The iron-nerved, glacial-blooded, flint-hearted Merriwether could not control himself after forty-five seconds of this. He flung the newspaper on the floor violently.

“Go ahead!” he said, harshly.

The doctor did not smile outwardly; but you felt that within himself he had found an answer to one of his own unspoken questions about the father of the suspect.

“There are, Mr. E. H. Merriwether,” he began, in the measured tones and overcareful enunciation of a lecturer at a clinic, “various forms of--let us say--madness; and your son Tom, a fine young man of twenty-eight, is quite unmistakably suffering from--”

He paused to give the fine young man's emotionless father an opportunity to show human feelings. Frauenthal was always interested in the struggle between the emotional and the physical in his millionaire patients.

“Go on!” said E. H. Merriwether, so very coldly as to irritate.

His eyes never left the alienist's own secret-draggers; but he was drumming on his thigh with the tips of his uncontrollable fingers. Ordinarily his desk would have screened from sight this betrayal of human feeling.

“Your son, sir, is suffering, beyond any question, from the oldest madness of all--love!”

“What?”

“Your son Tom is in love. That is what ails him.”

“Are you serious?” Mr. Merriwether was frowning fiercely now.

“You'll think so,” retorted Frauenthal, coldly, “when you get my bill.”

“My boy Tom in love?” repeated the czar, blankly. “Yes.”

“With whom?”

“I don't know. I'm a neurologist--not a soothsayer.”

“Well, suppose he is in love--what of it?”

“Nothing--to me.”

“Then what is serious about it?”

“I can't tell you, for its seriousness to you depends on your point of view toward society at large. There are, of course, the obvious disquieting circumstances.”

“For instance?”

“He is a fine chap--healthy, bright, honest. What is the reason he has said nothing to you? Is he ashamed or afraid? If he is ashamed it is very serious to both of you. If he is afraid--well, then the seriousness depends on how intelligent a father you have been to him.”

“Don't talk like a damned fool! I've been a good father to him; of course--”

“Wait! Wait! First tell me why you do what you ask me not to do?” In the specialist's eyes was a sort of professional curiosity.

“What do you mean?” said E. H. Merriwether, impatiently. It exasperated him to be puzzled.

“Why do you talk like a damned fool?” said Frauenthal.

Nobody ever talked that way to Mr. E. H. Merriwether, overlord of the greatest railroad empire in history. He flushed and was about to retort angrily, but controlled himself in time. The brougham had reached Frauenthal's office. Mr. Merriwether spoke too calmly--you could feel the tense restraint:

“Dr. Frauenthal, I've heard a great deal of your wonderful ability.”

He paused. It came hard to him to be ingratiating. This difficulty is the revenge which nature takes on people who acquire the habit of 'paying money for everything in this world. Such men cannot talk except with a check-book, and the check-book loses the power of speech before happiness--and before death.

“What very difficult thing is it you wish me to do for you?” asked Frauenthal, coldly.

“You are sure Tom is not--” He hesitated.

“Crazy?” prompted the specialist.

“Yes.”

“Yes; I'm sure he is not. Therefore he is saner than you who are a money-maker.”

Mr. Merriwether let this remark pass. He was anxious to save Tom. This man was uncannily sharp. He said, “And can't you do something, so that Tom will not--”

“I am not God!” interrupted Frauenthal.

“Then, what can I do? What do you suggest might be done?”

“As a neurologist?”

“Yes.”

“Nothing.”

“Then, as a man of the world--as one who knows human nature? You see, this--this--er--sort of thing is not in my line. What shall I do?” It was a terrible thing for the great Merriwether to confess inefficiency in anything.

“Pray!”

The little magnate flushed. “Dr. Frauenthal,” he began, with chilling dignity, “I asked--”

“And I answered. Have your millions deafened you? Pray! Pray to whatever other god you may have that the lady prove to be neither a prima donna nor a novelist. A temperamental daughter-in-law is really worse than you deserve, for all the money they say you have made. There are check-book gods and stock-ticker gods; and there is also God. I'd pray to Him if I were you. Good day, sir!”

The footman had opened the door, and the great specialist, without another look at the railroad man, got out and walked into his house.

“Where to, sir?” asked the footman.

Mr. Merriwether, however, was vexed to think that in relieving his anxiety over Tom's sanity Frauenthal had replaced it with a dread question--Why had not Tom told his father about her? The boy must be either crazy or in love. If he was not crazy, who in blazes was she? What was she? Why was she? All this angered him. He muttered aloud: “Hell!”

“Yes, sir--very good, sir,” said the footman, from force of habit. Then he trembled; but his master had not heard him.' The footman breathed deeply and said, tremulously, “B-beg p-pardon, sir?”

“Nearest Subway station!” said E. H. Merriwether. .

He was in a hurry to reach his office, not because he had important business to transact there, but because somehow he always thought best in his own chair before his own desk in his own office. There he was an autocrat, and there he could think autocratically and issue commands that were obeyed. He had much thinking to do--Tom was concerned, his son Tom; and Tom's future. And it was now clear that T. T. Merriwether's future was also the future of E. H. Merriwether!

Why had this thing come on him? Talk about your thunderbolts out of a clear sky--this love-affair was a million times worse! It was mysterious--and it is well known in Wall Street that a mystery is worse than nitroglycerine--infinitely more dangerous.

What was this love-affair? How far had it gone? Just where was the dynamite stored? Who was she? Why did not Tom say something? Why could not Tom have fallen in love safely? Why could he not have married a good girl who would help him and help E. H. Merriwether help both by minding her own business--to wit, a few little male Merriwethers?

It was time Tom became his father's successor-to-be. E. H. Merriwether had loved to do his own work his own way all his life. It was his pleasure. But the work suddenly took on an aspect of far greater importance than the worker. The work was the work of the Merriwethers--not of one Merriwether; not even of the great E. H., but of all the Merriwethers, living and to be.

Tom must be trained not only to be the son of a Merriwether, but to be himself a Merriwether. And therefore E. H. must cease to be a railroad expert toward Tom; he must become Tom's father, the trainer of a successor--flesh and blood the same; the fortune the same.

And, as a sense of impending loss always heightens values, E. H. Merriwether suddenly realized how important to him and to his happiness Tom was. He loved Tom, who was not only his only son, but the only Merriwether. That told everything: He loved Tom.

VI

After his father and Dr. Frauenthal left the house Tom tried to feel that he had finished his breakfast--that is to say, he attempted to read the newspapers. But the printed letters failed to combine themselves into intelligible forms, and even when he read a word here and there his mind did not record it. Obeying an unexplained impulse, he rose.

Then he sat down merely because he had been standing. Then he tried to reason why he was sitting and what sitting there thinking of himself in that particular position meant. But the sky was too blue! It called to him in an azure voice that made him long for the sunshine and the open air, and the rooflessness of outdoors that permits ten million fancies to soar unchecked.

Also, he longed for something; and, though he knew that he longed, he did not know exactly what it was he longed for, because it was not his mind that desired it, but all of him; and all of him did not think with precision. Young men are apt to feel like that in the springtime--also young women. Also widowers and relicts and canaries and heifers and burros--and even bankers!

Therefore Tom swore at that nothing which is always something and gave up trying to make himself think that he wanted to read the morning papers. His nervous system coined a proverb for him: “When in doubt, walk out!” So he walked out of the house and crossed the Avenue.

He found himself in Central Park--the remedy which the very rich do not and the very poor cannot use to cure the spring in the blood. And as he walked the soul-fidgets left him, so that after a mile or two he quite cold-bloodedly began to think of his most pressing duties. He went about them systematically.

The first thing he had to do was some shopping; shopping on Fifth Avenue--on Fifth Avenue where the jewelry-shops were; in the jewelry-shops where the wedding-presents were. There! He was off again. Everybody was getting married! What business had people to make people think of wives--yes, wives--plural; lots of wives; all beautiful, all desirable and worthy; all lovely and loving and lovable; and all fit to be rolled into one--Tom's?

It was not polygamy. It was merely composite photography. The one he desired had a little of each of the girls he admired. She was the amorous crazy-quilt that youth is so apt to dazzle itself with in the springtime--a nose from a friend; two lips from a stranger; a complexion from a distant relative; a pair of eyes from the sky; a heart from the heart of the sun--and lo! the wife-to-be!

And so the wedding-presents--a silver service, to be used by two sitting on opposite sides of a table, looking into each other's eyes; a glittering string, to be admired on a wonderful throat--were heavy enough to keep Tom's soul from soaring. And because his feet were on the pavement he soon found himself--of course!--before 777 Fifth Avenue.

Why should he not go to that house? And why should he not ring the bell? Why not? He was just in the mood to meet her!

His intentions were above suspicion, though marriage is a serious thing; but, really, now was the time for the adventure to appear--even if the adventure turned out to be merely the adventuress.

Therefore, with the inexorable logic of the most illogical state of mind known, he rang the bell and waited with an eagerness--half hope, half curiosity--most unusual among people who, like Tom, early acquire the habit of asking, check-book in hand, for whatever they wish.

The footman who answered was one of the men with the over-intelligent faces.

“I am Mr. Merriwether. I wish to see your master.”

Tom's voice rang a trifle more commandingly than the occasion appeared to call for. There was a physiological reason for it. The man hesitated so that Tom wondered; but presently all expression vanished from the non-menial face and the footman said:

“This way, if you please, sir.”

He preceded Tom to the door of his master's library. He rapped twice smartly and waited in an attitude of listening. Tom also listened intently; he could not have told why he did it--though it was, of course, inevitable.

Not a sound was heard. The over-intelligent footman's lips moved for all the world as though he were counting, and presently he opened the door and announced:

“Mr. Thomas Thorne Merriwether--7-7-7 7.”

Tom entered. The master of this strange house was seated at the over-elaborate library table, writing. He looked up, but before Tom could speak the man said, coldly:

“I cannot do anything for you, sir.”

It was so much like a refusal to give alms to a beggar that Tom flushed angrily. He managed to check a sharp retort on the very brink and, instead, began in a mildly ironical tone:

“Of course you know what I--”

“Of course!” interrupted the man, rudely; and he began impatiently to drum on the edge of the table with his penholder. “Do you imagine for a minute that you are the only mateless male in New York looking for his destined bride? And do you really think that the fruitlessness--until now--of your search is a world-tragedy? Because your name happens to be Thomas--which is a descriptive title when applied to marriageable felines of your own sex--do you fancy I am concerned with your affairs? Young man, you are the only son and heir of a very rich man; but there are some things that money cannot buy. Love is one of them.”

He frowned at Tom, but something in the young millionaire's face made him relent. He went on, more kindly, more encouragingly:

“My boy, she is seeking you, even as you are seeking her. She is very beautiful! You will meet her at the appointed hour--have no doubt of it. After your perfectly stupid failure at the opera--Wait!” He held up a hand as Tom was about to speak in self-defense. “The very futility of your manoeuvers shows that youth, brains, money, persistence, and desire are all powerless to hurry fate. As you, who have never seen her, love her, she loves you, though she has never seen you. She will know you as you will know her; but she is gone!”

“Where?” Tom spoke before he knew it.

“Be patient! After you meet her you will live with her until death parts you.”

He said this, without theatrical emphasis, in a most matter-of-fact way. Tom's suspicions, always present in this house of mystification rather than of mystery, were not made livelier by the man's words; but neither were they allayed by the tone of his voice. He hesitated, and then, adventure whispering, he said:

“To be perfectly frank, I am interested in this--”

“Young man, I told you before that I ask nothing of you--no favor, no money, no service; not even your interest. When I asked you to do a certain thing you did it. I am not particularly grateful. You could not have refused! Possibly you can explain to your own satisfaction your own inexplicable acquiescence; you doubtless have evolved a dozen most ingenious theories to account for your doings and mine. The shortest and easiest explanation is the true one--fate. After you marry you will compare notes with her--and yet you will not understand why I concerned myself with your lives. You will perplex yourselves so unnecessarily; all because of your unwillingness to say, fate! Men hate fate as a hypothesis. It is not flattering to admit that we are but puppets--the strongest of us no stronger than an autumn leaf in the wind. And because you do not see fate you do not believe in it. And, for fear of being considered an ass by a lot of asses, who also do not believe in fate, you will never tell any one your romantic story. And yet, of the scores you call friends, there are only seven men who are happily married. And those seven I helped, as I have helped you and as I shall help those I am ordered to help. Even now the Dispeller of Darkness is out, making one heart send a message in the dark to another heart waiting for it!”

“Do you mean to say you cannot or will not arrange for my meeting the mysterious person you tell me I am going to marry?”

“I mean to say that your coming to this house with such a hope merely means a waste of your time, young sir, and of mine. You will meet your love, but you cannot find her. No man finds happiness by means of a systematic or diligent search. It comes or it does not come--as God wills.”

The man rose. Tom also rose and said:

“But at least tell me where this--this alleged fate of mine is.”

The man shook his head with a smile that was in the nature of a mild sneer.

“Doubting Thomas! He won't admit it, but he can't deny it! Ah, so wise! So clever in his suspicions! So intelligently skeptical! Ah yes!”

Still nodding in ironical admiration, he approached the filing-cabinet.

“Let me see--you are 7-7-77.” He pulled out drawer seven in section seven and took out an envelope from which he drew a lot of papers. He read a typewritten sheet. He replaced the papers, closed the drawer, turned, and stared doubtfully at Tom, muttering half to himself: “I don't know! I don't know!”

“What?” asked Tom.

“Do you really want her? Do you feel that you must meet her soon or die?”

Tom knew he would not die if he did not meet her soon, but as for wanting her, he certainly did. Every cell in his body was on the alert, waiting for her, hoping to see her; and adventure, through a megaphone, was vociferating in the middle of his soul: “Come! Come!” Therefore Tom looked the man straight in the eyes and answered:

“Yes, I do!”

The man hesitated. Then he said:

“Listen! It is for the last time. Do you hear? For the last time! Do you agree?”

He looked sternly at Tom, who thereupon answered, impatiently:

“Yes! Yes!”

“Boston! Hotel Lorraine! Secure Room 77, seventh floor. On Thursday at exactly 7 p.m. be in the southeast corner of the library or reading-room, which is on the left of the hall as you go to the main dining-room. Green arm-chair. Hold your hat between your knees--bottom side upward. Close your eyes. A letter will be dropped into the hat. Then do as you please. Personally I don't think it will help or hinder. But you are young; and perhaps if you wish hard enough it may happen according to your desire. Good day!”

The man turned his back squarely on Tom, leaving to the heir of the Merriwether millions no alternative but to go out dissatisfied, excited, skeptical, hopeful, and determined to go to Boston--danger or no danger, swindle or no swindle.

The mysterious man, too mysterious to be anything but a charlatan, who said he did not wish Tom's money and, for that reason, probably did--this man promised Tom he should meet a girl--a beautiful girl, the girl he would marry. If there was to be no compulsion about it; if they, the man and his accomplices, counted on her charms to capture Tom's heart and hand--why, the sooner she began the attack, the better. Also, it was one of those things that only an ass would talk about, since the telling would put an end to all doubts as to the teller's asininity.

Therefore, without saying a word to anybody, Tom went to Boston, not knowing that McWayne's detectives had orders to follow Tom wherever he went and to report in detail what he was seen to do and what he was heard to say and to whom.

Tom arrived in Boston, went to the Hotel Lorraine, registered, and asked the polite room clerk for Room 77 on the seventh floor. The clerk smiled pleasantly, as he always did whenever a guest-to-be asked for rooms that did not end in thirteen, disappeared to look at the index, and returned.

“I'm sorry, sir, but that room is taken. I can give you--”

“Taken!” said Tom, in such a disappointed tone that the clerk deigned to explain sympathetically: “Engaged by telegraph.”

“Who engaged it?”

Tom asked this so peremptorily that the clerk looked at him icily with raised eyebrows, turned his back on the New-Yorker, made a pretense of once more looking at the index of rooms and guests, and said to him with a cold determination in his voice: “I made a mistake. I thought we had a vacant room on the eighth floor. I find we have no vacant room anywhere. I'm sorry, sir. Nothing left.”

He marked something after Tom's name on the register and turned away. He evidently considered the incident closed.

Tom was too surprised to be angry. Then he recovered himself. His business in Boston was to get a certain room in this hotel. He was a son of his father; so he said, with a quiet determination that disturbed the clerk:

“I must have Room 77 on the seventh floor! The price is of no consequence. I am Mr. Merriwether.”

“I told you it was engaged.”

“And I told you I must have it. Don't you understand English?”

“Don't you?” said the clerk, trying to disguise his growing uneasiness with a sneer.

This made Tom calm. He said, quietly: