Kitabı oku: «The Brute», sayfa 5
“I know, but I can’t help worrying. I don’t know what to do.”
“I should think the first thing you would do would be to sit down and write him that letter.”
“I don’t dare to.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Suppose something has happened to him. How can I know who might get the letter? I don’t dare to write the things I’ve got to say to him.”
Alice considered a moment. “No, I don’t suppose you’d better. I didn’t think of that. Can’t you find out, some way, how he is?”
“I don’t know a soul in Denver.”
Her sister paused for a moment, thinking deeply. “What is to-day, Edith?” she suddenly inquired – “The twentieth?”
“Yes, I believe so. Why?”
“Then Emerson Hall got to Denver last night. He wrote me from St. Louis that he was going there this week, and would arrive the night of the nineteenth. He expects to be there several weeks. I might ask him.”
“Will you?” Mrs. Rogers looked at her eagerly. “I must find out somehow. It seems terrible, not to write to him, now that he is so sick. I – I care a lot for him, Alice, even if I have decided not to run away with him. Do you think Mr. Hall will do it for you?”
“Who, Emerson? Of course he will. He’d do anything for me. And, besides, I think he knows Billy slightly. They’re both Columbia men, you know.”
“Send him a wire. Ask him to go to the hospital at once and find out how Billy is. I’ve got to know.”
“All right,” said Alice, as she made her way to the desk. “Got a blank?”
“I think there are some here.” Edith accompanied her sister to the desk. “Here’s one.” She handed Alice the blank.
“What shall I say?” asked Alice, as she seated herself at the desk.
“Just ask him to go to the City Hospital and inquire for William West. I’ll get the elevator boy to take it.” She stepped out into the hall and pressed the electric button. “How much is it for ten words – do you know?” she asked as she re-entered the room.
“Haven’t the least idea,” said her sister as she handed her the message she had written.
Edith glanced at it, took a dollar bill from her purse, and gave it and the message to the elevator boy who had answered her ring. “You’ll probably get the answer in the morning, Alice.” She turned to her sister as she closed the door. “You’ll bring it right down to me, won’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And not a word to Donald – that goes without saying. I wouldn’t have him know for anything.”
“All right. Billy is probably all right by this time, anyhow. As soon as you know that he is, I advise you to sit down and write him a nice, sensible letter – tell him you have reconsidered, and all that. You certainly owe it to him.”
“I will, Alice. I ought to have done it long ago. There’s the bell,” she added, wearily. “It’s probably mother.”
CHAPTER IX
It was on a cold raw morning, that William West arrived in Denver, and, as he made his way slowly from the sleeper to the waiting ’bus, he shivered under his heavy overcoat. He was not glad to be back. Denver and all its associations had faded into the pale background of past memories – his face was set toward the future, a future that promised all that joy of living, of loving and of being loved in return, which he so eagerly desired.
It cut him bitterly to think of his treachery to Donald, a treachery in no way lessened by the fact that love was its motive, yet he argued to his conscience that the future happiness of both Edith and himself was at stake and demanded of him even the sacrifice of his friendship.
He did not go to his accustomed rooms at the Prairie, for he intended to make his stay in the city as short and uneventful as possible. There was but one purpose in his mind – to dispose of his holdings in the mine, resign his office as vice-president of the company and invest his entire fortune in safe and desirable bonds, upon the interest of which he would be able to carry out his future plans with no greater attention to business affairs than that involved in clipping off his quarterly or half-yearly coupons. Therefore he held aloof from his old friends, his former associations. If he should let the men at the club know of his presence in the city, they would not only take up a great deal of his time, but would inevitably inquire into his plans in a way that might easily prove embarrassing. He therefore betook himself to a quiet hotel, not usually patronized by the traveling public, and, after a smoking-hot breakfast, proceeded to the offices of the company.
West had anticipated that his associates in the Lone Star Mining Company would be the most probable purchasers of his holdings and for this reason had determined to offer them the first opportunity to buy. His interview with Atkinson, the president, was entirely satisfactory. While expressing deep regret at West’s desire to withdraw from active participation in the business, the astute Boston man grasped at once the opportunity to acquire at, or near, par, a block of stock which would be worth double its present value in the course of a few years. He at once closed with West’s offer, taking an option on his holdings for ten days, during which time he expected to arrange for the necessary capital to carry out the purchase. A meeting of the board was called to act upon West’s resignation, and, when the latter left the office for luncheon, he had, as far as was possible, for the moment, completed the business that had brought him to Denver.
The following ten days were a nightmare. There was nothing to do, but write to Edith, it seemed, and to read her daily letters over and over, drawing from them new inspiration for his plans with each rereading. Slowly the ten days passed. Atkinson reported entire success in his plans for the syndicate he was forming to take over West’s holdings; within a week the latter expected to be flying eastward, leaving the matter of reinvesting his money until he should reach New York.
His anxiety to return as quickly as possible was accentuated by traces of a change of heart which he fancied he detected in some of Edith’s later letters. She had spoken of her fears for the success of their plans – her duty to her husband, her boy. “Poor little girl,” thought West, “she needs me with her, to keep up her courage in these most trying hours of her life.”
The night of the ninth day he went to bed early, with a dull, insistent pain in his right side which he attributed to a cold, a result of the raw, unseasonable weather. In the morning the pain had increased; he had passed a restless, broken night, and arose feeling dizzy and half-sick. He determined to consult a doctor, but not until he had completed his business.
At ten o’clock he met Atkinson and his associates, and within an hour the stock had been delivered, and the certified check for close to half a million dollars deposited in the bank. A great sense of relief filled his mind – he was free, to seek happiness wherever in the broad expanse of the world he might find it. Yet beneath all his joy – his exultation, there throbbed a double sense of pain, the dull gnawing of conscience at his heart, and the sharp, insistent throbbing that, knife-like, shot through his right side. Clearly this latter was not a matter to be trifled with. He turned into the first doctor’s office that met his eye, and joined the other unfortunates waiting in the anteroom.
The doctor would see him presently, the low-voiced maid informed him. He sat bolt upright in an uncomfortable chair and gripped his hands together fiercely as the sharp pangs of pain tore at his vitals. Would these people never be through? he wondered. From within the doctor’s office, shut off by glass doors, came the faint echoes of conversation; some unfortunate, no doubt, hearing the dread sentence of life or death, or perhaps only a nervous woman, being prescribed bread pills for a fancied indisposition. There were two men and a woman waiting ahead of him. They looked healthy enough; he wondered what they could have the matter with them that made their faces so grave.
For nearly an hour he was forced to wait in an agony of mind and body, until his turn came, and his thoughts were the thoughts of a man upon whom the hand of death has already laid its icy touch. He knew it was all nonsense – engendered of pain-racked nerves, yet his conscience smote him, and would not be stilled. The pain in his side spelled disaster, and he could not shake off the thought. He had never believed in the direct intervention of Providence in the affairs of mankind, yet here was he, at the moment when all his future, as he had planned it, lay smiling before him, stricken with an illness which, laugh at it as he would, he could not help fearing might mean an end to all his hopes.
He sat up and shook his head with a quick, nervous motion which had been characteristic of him since childhood. This was all the height of folly, he argued – the natural train of gloomy thoughts which resulted from his surroundings. Even the faint odor of carbolic acid, compounded with that of other unknown chemicals, was enough to make a man feel blue. He rose as the maid beckoned to him – the other consultations had happily been short.
Dr. Oliver was a man of few words. He had not time for more, for his practice was one of the largest in the city. He glanced at West’s pain-drawn face, listened to his few words of explanation, felt his side with practiced hands, and delivered his opinion in a few terse words. “Appendicitis,” he said quickly, “and an aggravated case. You must undergo an operation at once.”
Somehow or other West felt a sudden sense of relief at these words. After all, an operation for appendicitis was not such a serious matter. He knew any number of people who had been through it. “I am stopping at a hotel,” he observed. “I do not live in Denver. I suppose I shall be obliged to go to a hospital at once.”
“By all means.” The doctor turned to his desk telephone and called a number. “I will arrange for an operation at the City Hospital, if you wish it.”
“Thank you,” replied West, “I do wish it.”
The doctor held a short conversation over the telephone. “I presume you can go to the hospital at once?” he inquired.
West nodded.
“I will send for a carriage,” the doctor went on, as he drew a thermometer from a leather case and placed it beneath West’s tongue. “Your case is an acute one, Mr. West, and we cannot afford to lose any time.” He again spoke sharply over the telephone, then, bidding West bare his arm, gave him a quick hypodermic injection which diffused a blessed sense of relief through every nerve of his pain-racked body. He sank upon a couch, and awaited the coming of the carriage. His thoughts were no longer gloomy. He seemed to be floating in a sea of warmth, which caressed him pleasurably and filled him with a delicious feeling of well-being. Even the dull-figured flowers on the walls of the doctor’s office seemed alive, and glowing with color. The coming of the carriage seemed unimportant; nothing, in fact, seemed to matter, now that the gnawing of that terrible pain had left him.
It was Wednesday afternoon when West arrived at the City Hospital, and within two hours thereafter the operation was over, and he slowly returned to a sense of the reality of life, with a feeling of deadly nausea, and the pain once more throbbing in his right side. Over him bent a clear-eyed nurse, sympathetic as to his comfort, offering him a glass of water. Presently a physician joined her. West looked at them without interest and from the jumbled impressions of the day once more passed into a dreamless sleep.
It was in the early morning that he first began to think of Edith. Her letters would be awaiting him at his hotel. He must send for them – he must write to her and tell her of all that had happened. He felt that she would be alarmed at not hearing from him, for, until the day before, he had not failed to post a letter to her each night, telling her of the events of the day.
In response to his repeated requests, the nurse sent a messenger boy for his mail, and, when the latter returned, she read him Edith’s letter at his request. He could not read it himself – he lay flat on his back, in semi-darkness, and even the slight effort of moving his hands seemed to send innumerable sharp quivers of pain through every portion of his body.
The nurse read the letter haltingly, as one reads an unfamiliar handwriting; it was signed, like all the letters, with initials only, and told him of Edith’s anxiety to see him, of her hopes and fears, and all the other foolish things that women write to men they love. To him it seemed a message from heaven, for he loved her very deeply, and her slightest word became a treasure to him, invested with a new significance; lifted from its commonplace surroundings; something to ponder over, and think about all through the long, weary day. He sent a reply, treating lightly of his illness, so as not to alarm her needlessly. The nurse carefully wrote it down for him at his dictation. He hesitated when it came to telling the woman the address – he did not wish to compromise Edith, to give her name to a stranger. There was no other way, however, and, after all, he believed that, within a month at the outside, they would be standing hand in hand at the taffrail of some great ocean liner, watching the towering skyline of New York as it disappeared in the hazy distance along with their troubles and cares. The mere fact that their secret was known, now, to a hospital nurse, could do no harm; in a few weeks all the world would know it, but they would be in each other’s arms, and the opinion of the world would not matter very much.
The day seemed strangely long and he was glad when night came, and with it some respite from his pain. He felt tired, terribly tired, and his head throbbed with a burning fever. They gave him things to make him sleep, and water for his cracking lips. As the evening wore on even the thoughts of the morning’s letter no longer interested him. He turned his face to the wall, and tried not to think of anything at all. After a while he slept, while the nurse and the doctor on his evening round spoke together softly, and in grave tones, with many anxious glances in his direction.
The next morning his fever was better, and the letter brought him from his hotel made the day seem for a time full of joy and brightness, but after a little while a great sense of weariness overcame him. Nothing seemed to matter much; whether he lived or died. He was conscious only of a desire to sleep – how long, even though forever, he did not care in the very least.
About noon he was roused by the approach of someone toward his bed, and opened his eyes to see Doctor Oliver standing beside him. The doctor looked very grave as he took his patient’s hand, his fingers mechanically feeling the rapid, weak pulse. “Mr. West,” said the doctor, “I think you should let your family know of your illness.”
West tried to raise his hand, then fell back with a sigh of weariness. “Am I as sick as all that?” he inquired faintly, as he gazed into the doctor’s inscrutable eyes.
“You are a very sick man, Mr. West. I do not wish to needlessly alarm you, but it would be best to communicate with your people, and put your affairs in order, so that, whatever happens, you will be ready to meet it.”
The sick man looked at the doctor with a long, intent look. His lips quivered, his hand tightened fearfully upon the one that held it. “You mean that I am going to die?” he asked bravely. “Tell me the truth, doctor. I would rather know.” The doctor nodded his head slowly, but made no other reply.
West was a long time in realizing the truth, yet it seemed as though he had always known it. He had never quite believed that all the happiness he looked forward to so gladly would ever really come true. It seemed almost too much to ask of fate. And now it was all ended. He must die, here alone, with not even Edith’s presence to gladden his few remaining hours. For a long time he looked at the doctor with burning eyes, yet no words would come to say that which he felt. The doctor must have understood, for he, too, stood silent, his eyes fixed tenderly upon the dying man’s face. At last he spoke.
“You should send for your people, Mr. West,” he said.
“I have no people, doctor.”
“Is there no one you would care to see?”
“No – no one that could come to me here.” He thought of Edith – so far away – even if she could come to him, he knew there would not be time. He looked once more at the grave face which bent over his. “How long have I to live, doctor?” he asked.
“I am afraid the time is not very long, Mr. West. If you have any business affairs that you wish to attend to, I would advise you to do so at once.”
Business affairs! What business affairs could interest him now? His fortune lay in the Central National Bank, and beyond some distant relatives in New Hampshire whom he had never seen, and who scarcely knew of his existence, there was no one on earth to whom he could leave it. No one? The thought flashed through his mind – what about Edith? She was nearer and dearer to him than all the relatives in the world – she must have this money; at least it would bring her comfort and the ability to make her life what she had always wished it to be. He raised his hand, and began to speak. “You must send Austin Williams here, doctor. He is a lawyer in the Pioneer Building. You can call him up on the telephone.” He sank back, exhausted from the effort of speaking. Williams had done work for him in the past. It would be a small thing, to make his will. The doctor and the nurse would act as witnesses. He asked the former to hurry – there was no time to be lost – he felt his strength ebbing away even as he spoke.
The long silence that followed until the lawyer arrived was unbroken save by the labored breathing of the man in the bed. What thoughts passed through his pain-tortured brain – what agony of regret, of remorse, of self-accusation, he did not show by word or look. He lay with his eyes closed, the seal of death upon his forehead. At last the lawyer arrived, and in a few moments was apprised of the sad circumstances which had called him. He gripped West’s hand with a silent pressure of sympathy, and listened to the broken words that told him of last wishes. His entire property was to be left to Edith Pope Rogers, wife of Donald Evan Rogers, of New York City. That was all. The lawyer called for pen and paper, and rapidly drew up the short, concise will. West’s attorney in New York, Ogden Brennan by name, of the firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, was named as executor.
Within fifteen minutes the will had been drawn, signed and duly witnessed, and William West had completed his last earthly task. He bade Williams a steady farewell, and then turned toward the wall. “I’m so tired!” he moaned, then became quiet. They thought he was sleeping, and did not disturb him. He was, but it was the sleep from which there is no awakening.
CHAPTER X
The bells in Old Trinity were chiming the hour of five and all New York began to turn its face homeward. The human tide flowed from offices to elevators, from elevators to corridors and thence in an ever growing stream toward the subway and elevated stations. The sun, like a round red Chinese lamp, was poised above the gathering mists of the Jersey shore, ready for its plunge behind the distant hills. Office boys and bank presidents, stenographers and captains of industry fought democratically for seats in the overcrowded trains, while over all sounded the shrill call of the newsboys as they disposed of the afternoon papers. Down-town New York had completed another day – the tides now moved on to Jersey, Harlem, Brooklyn, or the great center of life that throbs unceasingly about Times Square.
Against this ever increasing torrent of humanity Mr. Ogden Brennan of the firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw, Attorneys-at-Law, struggled irritably, as he forced his way from a down-town subway train, and hurried to the firm’s extensive suite of offices in Wall Street, near Broadway.
He gave a quick glance about as he entered, and, making rapidly for his private office, called sharply to young Garvan, one of his assistants, to ask Mr. Shaw to join him at once. Mr. Brennan was tall and gaunt-looking, and peremptory alike in his physical and mental processes, and, when he entered his office, as he did on this occasion, in a more than usually energetic fashion, everybody, down to William the office boy, was galvanized into an unwonted activity.
Mr. Shaw, the junior member of the firm, with a dinner on at his club, had already donned his overcoat and was giving some parting instructions to his stenographer as young Garvan entered and delivered the message. He took up his hat with a sigh – he was of a more placid and phlegmatic temperament than his partner – and, picking up his afternoon paper, folded it carefully, selected his walking stick from the stand near the door, and proceeded in a leisurely manner to Mr. Brennan’s private office.
The firm of Gruber, McMillan, Brennan & Shaw was a large one, and its principal practice lay in the handling of the affairs of corporations and estates. Criminal practice knew it not, but it was said of Mr. Shaw that he could draw a better contract, or handle a difficult merger, more successfully than any other lawyer in New York, which was saying much. Mr. Brennan dealt with estates and wills – the latter were his hobby. He claimed that none drawn by himself had ever been broken.
As Mr. Shaw entered his partner’s private office, with a bland look of inquiry upon his well-bred countenance, he observed Mr. Brennan throw down upon his desk, with an exclamation of annoyance, a thin legal document, comprising but two pages, written, as he noted, in longhand, instead of the usual typewritten characters. Mr. Brennan looked up with a frown.
“Sam,” he said hurriedly, “you know that young Billy West? He’s dead.”
Mr. Shaw put on his eyeglasses, and regarded Mr. Brennan curiously. “I don’t seem to remember him,” he replied. “Who was he?”
“Son of old Josiah West, the patent attorney. He made a fortune in mining operations in Colorado. His father used to be a client of mine, twenty years ago. Don’t you recollect the suits he brought against the paper trust?”
“Before my time, I think,” replied Mr. Shaw.
“Well, it’s not important now. I’ve been wanting to see you about the matter all day, but that case of the Webster estate has kept me on the jump. Young West died in Denver last Friday. I’ve just received a copy of his will from an attorney out there by the name of Williams.” Mr. Brennan referred to the papers impatiently, adjusting his glasses with a jerk. “Austin Williams. He writes a long letter, telling me of West’s death in the City Hospital there, following an operation for appendicitis. Very sudden affair. West was interested in a mine out there, but had sold out his holdings and put the proceeds in bank. About half a million, I believe. I’m executor of his estate.” He looked at Mr. Shaw with a frown.
“What of it, Ogden? Simple enough affair, I should think. No contesting claims, I hope, or anything of that sort.”
“None, so far as I can see. It’s the terms of the will that I can’t quite understand, and they impress me unpleasantly.”
“What are they?” Mr. Shaw regarded his partner wearily. He wondered why Brennan troubled to explain to him all these apparently unimportant details, just when he was in an especial hurry to get up-town and change in time for dinner. “Is there anything in the matter that requires action to-night?” he inquired. “I have a rather important engagement, and – ”
“Sam,” interrupted his partner, “I won’t keep you long. My object in telling you of this matter is to find out if by any chance you know a man in town named Donald Rogers. The name, somehow, sounded familiar to me, and I thought possibly you might be able to tell me something about him. You know everybody, almost.”
“Rogers,” repeated Mr. Shaw to himself, slowly; “Donald Rogers. Isn’t he a mechanical engineer? There was a chap by that name who had something to do with the Sunbury Cement case. Expert witness, if I remember rightly. Seemed a very decent sort of a fellow, and knew his business. We won the case on his testimony. What’s he got to do with it?” The junior partner took a chair, and laid his cane, newspaper and gloves carefully upon the desk. “Go ahead,” he said quietly. “Let’s have the details.”
Mr. Brennan took off his glasses and nervously put them on again. “This will that West made, upon his deathbed – ” he picked up the document from the desk and regarded it distastefully – “leaves his entire estate to a woman.” He paused and glanced at his partner as though to note the effect of his statement.
Mr. Shaw turned restlessly in his chair. He evidently saw nothing strange in this. “Well, why not?” he asked. “I don’t see anything about that to cause anyone any alarm. It had to be either a woman or a man, I suppose, if he left no children.”
“The strange part about the affair, Sam, is this: Young West was not married. He left this money to the wife of another man with whom he was madly in love. So far as I can learn, she was equally in love with him. They were planning an elopement, or something of the sort, when he was stricken with this illness. He insisted upon leaving her everything.”
“You don’t say so! Who is she?” asked Mr. Shaw, for the first time manifesting an interest in his partner’s story.
Mr. Brennan took up the will, and, opening it, read aloud, “Edith Pope Rogers, wife of Donald Evan Rogers, of New York City.”
Mr. Shaw arose. He took up from the desk a telephone directory and consulted it with interest. “Donald Evan Rogers,” he presently read, “mechanical engineer, Columbia Building.” He put down the book and glanced at his partner. “That’s the man. I remember him well now. Bright young fellow, and very hardworking. I took quite a fancy to him. Rather a queer state of things, I must say.” He whistled softly to himself.
“Decidedly so. I have no choice in the matter, of course, but I fancy this document is likely to cause considerable trouble in the Rogers’ household.”
Mr. Shaw wrinkled his brow in a frown. “You don’t suppose for a moment he’d let his wife take this money – unless, of course,” he added reflectively, “she intends to leave him.”
Mr. Brennan threw the will upon the table with a snort. “That’s the whole trouble, Sam. The woman had been writing young West every day. Williams has sent me all her letters to him, along with his other papers. I’ve glanced through some of them. She had evidently made up her mind to leave her husband at once, as soon as West got back from Denver.”
“I don’t see that there is anything for you to do but to go ahead with the matter as the law requires. You are not supposed to know anything about West’s relations with this man’s wife. Possibly her husband doesn’t know, either. It is none of your affair.”
“I know it, but doesn’t it occur to you, Sam, that this is likely to explode a bombshell in this young fellow’s home?”
“Did West know Rogers well?” inquired Mr. Shaw.
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you call on them this evening and find out? Possibly the husband may see nothing queer in this money being left to his wife. West may have been a friend of his. The woman will say nothing, you may be sure of that.”
“It’s the only thing to do, I know, but I can’t say that I look forward to the interview with much pleasure. I thought at first of asking Mrs. Rogers to come here, and telling her the whole story; but, if I do, she will of course ask me to keep quiet about the matter, and that will put me in the position of aiding and abetting her in deceiving her husband. I want him to be present, when I see her.”
“Then I would suggest that you go to their house to-night. You will most probably find the husband at home.” He took up the city directory and searched its columns carefully. “Here you are,” he exclaimed at length. “Roxborough Apartments, One Hundred and Tenth Street. Drop in on them this evening, why don’t you?”
“I suppose I had better,” observed Mr. Brennan slowly, “though I must say it is a damnably disagreeable task. The case presents some extremely unpleasant problems.”
Mr. Shaw picked up his stick, his gloves, and his newspaper, and began slowly to button up his coat. “Decidedly so,” he observed. “I can’t say I like it. This woman has been on the point of eloping with another man, who leaves her a large fortune. She might of course refuse to accept it, or at least dispose of it in some way, but I fail to see how she can do so, without arousing her husband’s suspicions. If, on the other hand, she can convince him that West left her the money from pure friendship, and goodness of heart, she places herself in the position of accepting the money of her lover to spend upon her husband – her children – if she has any. Pretty rough on the husband, I must say. No self-respecting man could permit such a thing. The worst of it is that we have got to be a party to it. What sort of a woman can she be, I wonder?”
“That is just the thing we must determine. Understand, this woman knows nothing of the will as yet. I confess I feel considerable curiosity as to what her course of action will be when she learns of it. It’s a mighty difficult position for any woman to be in, there’s no denying that. She may, of course, refuse to accept it at all.”
“She couldn’t very well. It’s hers by law.”
“Of course, I understand that. But she could dispose of it in some way, possibly.”
“Not without its looking very queer to her husband.” Mr. Shaw moved toward the office door. “I guess I wouldn’t worry about the matter, Ogden, if I were you. Let them fight it out themselves. After all, it’s their funeral, not ours, you know. If there is anything I can do in the matter, let me know. Good-night. I’ve got to hurry.” He passed out, the expression on his face indicating a sort of morose satisfaction. Perhaps he was congratulating himself upon the fact that he was not married.
