XXI
With characteristic energy Gorham made good the promise given to Allen to investigate matters at the office, and not many days after his return to his desk he issued a call for a special meeting of the Executive Committee. He looked upon it almost as a weakness to have permitted this boy's unsupported statements to influence him even to this extent, but he justified himself by the knowledge that a confirmation of the loyalty of his associates would give him renewed strength.
The day of the meeting found every member of the committee present—a fact which interested Gorham as an evidence of the devotion of these men to the responsibilities which rested upon them. But the routine business had no sooner been completed than the president became aware that the harmony which had existed from the beginning was in danger of being disturbed. Inquiries were made which were too significant to be overlooked, and veiled criticism came from quarters where previously he had believed existed absolute confidence in himself and full approval of his methods.
"It is well to have this come to a head," Gorham remarked after several had expressed their views. "This corporation is so gigantic that it must fall of its own weight unless every part of its structure be sound and effective in bearing its share of the load. There is no stability where there is lack of harmony, and what you gentlemen have said to-day shows beyond question that radical and immediate action is imperative to preserve to our stockholders what we have already gained for them, and to secure the future benefits which are assured, provided the Companies itself can act as a unit. Now, in order that we may clearly understand the situation, will not Mr. Litchfield state specifically the criticism implied in his remarks?"
Litchfield rose deliberately from his seat. He was the head of certain large gas-works which the corporation had acquired in connection with its consolidation of the lighting interests in Philadelphia.
"Before complying with Mr. Gorham's request," he began, "I wish to say that nothing is further from my intentions than to cast aspersions either upon our president or his motives. During the time I have served on this committee I have been amazed by the increasing realization which has come to me of the marvellous success he has achieved in developing the Consolidated Companies to the point it has reached to-day. Many of us have contributed in a smaller or greater degree to its success, but it has been his master mind which has anticipated the conditions and provided the means to make the most of them. But it is also true that in doing this Mr. Gorham has, in my opinion, deliberately neglected to secure for the Companies as large returns as might have been gained. In the Philadelphia Lighting Company, for example, with which I am naturally more familiar than with any of the other ramifications of the Consolidated Companies, Mr. Gorham has voluntarily reduced the rates when the consumers had expressed no general discontent with the former prices. It is true that the consolidation effected great economies in the production, but it is entirely obvious that the profits to the company would be greater if we were receiving the full advantage of the economies by still selling our product at the old rates. And this case which I have cited is, I understand, a fair sample of Mr. Gorham's policy in all other directions. I can appreciate the desirability in the past of giving the people the advantage in a few transactions in order to create public confidence; but to continue to make a practice of so doing appears to me to be unnecessary and, I may say, unbusinesslike."
After Litchfield sat down Gorham called upon several others, some of whom expressed themselves, with more or less frankness, along the same line.
"Then it all sums itself up in this," he said at length, after having invited remarks from those who cared to take part in the discussion: "Your president has been guilty of not making the most of the opportunities which he himself has created."
This seemed to be the sense of the meeting.
"Then let me ask a few questions," continued Gorham. "Mr. Litchfield has told us of the reduced cost of production in his plants as a result of our consolidation. Will he not further state how great that economy is?"
"Thirty-three and one-third per cent.," was the prompt reply.
"And we have reduced the rate how much?"
"Fifteen per cent."
"How much has the business increased during the past year?"
"About twenty per cent."
"And the balance-sheet shows what as to profits?"
"About twenty-five per cent. larger than any previous year."
"In spite of the reduced rates," Gorham added, significantly.
"But they would have been larger still if the old rates had prevailed,"
Litchfield insisted.
"I cannot agree with you," Gorham said, firmly. "Your concern had been standing still for six years when we took hold of it—the business had even gone backward the last year—yet in two years' time, under our administration, it shows a gross gain of thirty-three and one-third per cent. and a net gain of twenty-five. I am enlarging on Mr. Litchfield's case because, in a measure, it is an answer to you all, and a full justification of the basis upon which I have rested and shall continue to rest the operations of the Companies. It has been my pride that it was possible to administer the affairs of this corporation in such a way that not only could we boast that during the five years of our business existence we had lived up to the principles on which we originally built, but also that we have proved it a sound financial proposition. Never before in the history of the world has any body of men associated themselves in business with the avowed purpose of making their organization an advantage to the people, without either failing signally in their undertaking or proving themselves false to their responsibilities. We have reached a point where failure is impossible; we find ourselves receiving greater returns upon our investment than is yielded by any other organization in existence. Can it be possible that there is one man among us who wishes to take away from the Companies the unique position which it has now gained?"
It was evident that Litchfield had been appointed the spokesman for the committee, as he immediately assumed the responsibility of replying to Gorham's remarks.
"May I not ask our president if he does not overestimate the importance of standing up so straight that there is danger of falling over backward? There is no difference of opinion as to the commercial value of the great asset which he has established for the Companies, in so completely winning the confidence of the people at large as well as those who hold high positions of trust. We should stultify ourselves were we to take any such stand, for the profits of the Companies are an irrefutable argument. The question before us, then, is not one of fact, but rather of degree. Why should we spend these further millions to gain that which we have already secured? We should still so administer the affairs of the Companies as to hold this great advantage, but I maintain that we should pay no more to hold it than is absolutely necessary."
Gorham glanced around to see if any one else was disposed to add to what Litchfield had said, but the silence which prevailed indicated more clearly than words that the speaker had expressed the consensus of opinion.
"I am waiting for some one to remind Mr. Litchfield that he has overlooked, in his statement, a fact which possesses vital significance," Gorham said at length. "The Consolidated Companies has received from the people concessions which it has succeeded in making immensely valuable. It has accepted these concessions in trust upon the distinct understanding that those who gave them should receive equal benefit. So far, this trust has been religiously observed. Every dollar of profit which the stockholders have divided represents a like amount paid back to those to whom it belongs. To pay them less would be not only a breach of faith, but would be to retain that which does not belong to us. It is not for Mr. Litchfield or for me to determine the amount—the proportion has already been settled by our original covenant."
Litchfield moved uneasily in his chair as Gorham ceased speaking.
"You put it in rather a disagreeable form, Mr. Gorham. Perhaps the fact that you have been talking this side of the enterprise for so long has made you assimilate more of your own theories than is ordinarily the case. Of course, in the beginning, it was necessary to make the statements strong in order to be convincing, but there was no 'covenant,' as you call it, and the people are not in a position to exact an equal division unless we choose to give it to them."
"Can it be that I understand you correctly?" Gorham demanded, with mingled indignation and amazement. "Do you mean to imply that I have not been sincere in stating to the public the original basis upon which we incorporated? Do you suggest that when one party to the agreement has lived fairly up to his end of it we, the other party, should neglect to do the same, simply because he has no access to our books and no power to demand an accounting?"
"You are far too literal in your interpretation of my remarks," Litchfield protested, with some warmth. "This parallel you have drawn is absurd on the face of it. There has been no legal agreement that we should treat the dear public as if it were in actual partnership with us. You have held out certain inducements which have secured for us the concessions, and we have made good the promise you gave that our success meant advantage to the people. But all this was a means to an end. For five years the public has shared equally with those of us who have put money and brains into the Consolidated Companies. No one suggests that the people should not still continue to receive benefits, but those of us here present are unanimous in our conviction that the time has now come to conduct the Companies upon a strictly business basis. This is not the age for quixotic sentimentality, and the Consolidated Companies not only possesses the right, but the power to maintain its position upon the same basis as other smaller and less powerful organizations. Speaking for myself alone, I am amazed that Robert Gorham, with his exceptional and acknowledged business acumen, should take a position with his Executive Committee which is as disadvantageous to his own interests as it is to the stockholders'."
No one but Gorham himself saw the mist which momentarily rose before his eyes, yet, when it passed, his vision was clearer than it had ever been. The men sitting around him represented the flower of the business world, each one of whom stood before his fellow-men as a tangible expression of honor and integrity. Yet not one was able to comprehend Gorham's viewpoint, not one could be anything but incredulous that he stood sincere in the position he had taken. This was what hurt him most. The applause which his associates had awarded him had been as that won by a clever actor rather than, as he had believed, the responsive echo forced from their souls by the battle notes of a new cause. Their acceptance of his doctrines had been because his arguments had persuaded them of the material side of the enterprise. The very magnetism which they had felt exercised by him upon themselves they had capitalized as an asset to be assayed when once the ore was stopped. All the high-sounding claims were turned at this moment into empty platitudes. All his promises were valueless beyond his personal strength to make them good. To this extent Allen had been right, but it was not too late to recognize the danger and to meet it. His associates saw the Robert Gorham they thought they had known for five years sitting in repose before them while this realization of the situation surged through his brain—they saw the real Robert Gorham when he rose to his feet, and faced them with a force they felt before a word was spoken.
"I could not have believed it possible," he said, "for a moment such as this ever to arrive. I have lived in this business Utopia for five years, blind to the fact that those who labored with me failed utterly to comprehend or to appreciate the sincerity of my motives or the integrity of my purpose. I admit that I question my ability to make clear to you by words what my acts have not conveyed. During these years, and until to-day, you have accepted my judgment as supreme, and for the first time I realize that this was not because you believed in it, but because you saw in it advantage to yourselves. The gratification which I have enjoyed from this supposed tribute has vanished, like the empty bubble that it was. It has been said that the Consolidated Companies was a one-man corporation, which I have denied, believing that my labors were rather those of the pioneer, showing the way to those associated with me who would naturally follow my footsteps. Again, I was wrong: this has been a one-man corporation, and it is so to-day. Not only has the creation of it been mine and mine alone, but also the successful putting into execution of those principles which I alone devised. The credit for this, which I have until now proudly conceded to you, I assume wholly for myself, and I also give myself the further credit of having, unknown to myself, been the single force which has compelled you to live up to the high standard I established.
"Now, as the parent of this child which I have seen develop to this point under my guidance and protection, I stand here prepared to fight for its honor against you who threaten its destruction—and I warn you that the parent love dares much. As the Roman Virginius stood with his sword pricking the flesh over the heart of his beloved daughter, so do I stand ready to destroy my offspring rather than suffer its dishonor at the hands of any Appius Claudius. Gentlemen, the Consolidated Companies has been a one-man corporation in the past through your sufferance; from to-day, if it exist at all, it shall be a one-man corporation because of my will. You know that these are no idle words. You know what would be the result of a single statement from me that the Companies repudiates its assumed responsibilities. I do not ask—I demand that you gentlemen, as the Executive Committee of the corporation, pass such resolutions as will place the authority absolutely in my hands. I ask Mr. Litchfield to take the chair, while I retire to give you ample opportunity for discussion. However hard it may be for your personal pride, you will have to do this—you have too much at stake to gratify your resentment of my autocracy. But if you can gain any consolation in the knowledge that you have dealt your president a blow from which it will take long for him to recover, I beg of you to make the most of it. I believed that power was the supreme lever with which to move the world, and that money was but the fulcrum upon which that lever should rest. You gentlemen have shattered this belief, and have shown me that sordid gold is the controlling object of man's life. Still, I prefer to remain in my Utopia, alone if need be, but with your unwilling company so long as my present strength shall last."
Gorham closed his eyes involuntarily as he ceased speaking, still standing before his associates. A single tremor passed over his face, and then it was as impassive as before. With a bow as courteous as it was impressive, he left the room.
XXII
When Covington entered Gorham's office an hour later he found his chief bowed forward on his desk, his head resting upon his hands. As the door closed the older man raised his eyes, and the change in his face caused Covington to stop in surprise. The usual color was replaced by a dull, ashen gray, the lines had deepened, and the general aspect was that of a man ten years older.
"Everything is all right, Mr. Gorham," Covington remarked, encouragingly. "They passed the resolutions you demanded."
"John."
It was the first time Gorham had ever addressed him by his Christian name, and this fact, together with the tone in which it was spoken, aroused a novel sensation in the younger man. He took the outstretched hand, and accepted the friendly pressure, conscious of a feeling not altogether pleasant.
"John," Gorham repeated, "you and I are the only ones who can save the Companies to its stockholders. We have a tremendous responsibility thrust upon us."
"But you won out," Covington exclaimed, amazed that Gorham seemed not to have comprehended his words. "Everything is all right."
"Everything is all wrong," the older man corrected, his eyes flashing with a fire at variance with his general bearing. "Of course I won out, but that is the least of my concern. My life-work bids fair to be a failure, unless you and I together can build this structure over, using material which this time will prove strong enough to withstand the unholy strain of money, money, money. Of course I won out, because they dare not risk my antagonism; but I have failed—miserably failed—in my efforts to instil into those associated with me the basic principles of a successful altruistic business. Oh, the pity of it! The greater the returns the greater the greed, and their blindness in killing the goose which lays the golden egg! But in you, John, at least, I have a tower of strength."
Covington found himself being rapidly forced into an equivocal position. No one knew so well as he that the present conditions were the direct result of his skilful and persistent manipulation, yet the result of this first issue had not been what he had foreseen. In fact, it had turned out better than he had expected, in that Gorham now leaned on him as his sole support. Yet it was dangerous, Covington realized, to be placed where he could be accused of carrying water on both shoulders, so he hastened to put himself on record, midway between the two factions.
"They had no idea that you laid so much stress on the moral side, in your own mind—" he began.
"How could they have known me at all and thought otherwise?"
"The whole scheme of the Consolidated Companies is so unusual that perhaps it isn't to be wondered at. What you consider to be unwarranted is a recognized business method in other corporations."
"Why do you tell me this?" Gorham demanded, suddenly.
"Because I feared that you had overlooked it, in the heat of the argument, and some sort of a compromise is of course necessary."
"Compromise?" repeated Gorham, questioningly. "I don't follow you."
"Why, you've carried your point, and proved your strength, but you have divided the Companies into two camps. Of course something must be done to conciliate. By Jove! that was an arraignment you gave them!"
"There can be no conciliation, Covington," was the firm response; "there can be no compromise. The Consolidated Companies either is what it is, or it is nothing. The pledges which I have made from the beginning shall be lived up to in spirit and in letter, or the final exercise of the strength which they all are forced to admit shall be again to separate it into its integral parts, and prevent it from undoing that which I have already accomplished through its agency."
"That is a large contract for any one man to undertake," Covington remarked. "No individual has yet been able to disintegrate a successful going corporation when the stockholders and the directors were opposed to it."
"We are talking of unusual things," Gorham replied. "No individual before has been able to found so mammoth or so successful a corporation as the Consolidated Companies. No individual before this has found himself strong enough to force the immediate capitulation, against their wills, of so powerful an Executive Committee. With these precedents before me, I state my determination not as a threat, or as a boast, but as a fact."
"Are you counting on the stockholders for support?"
"Absolutely."
"You will find them as unanimously against you as you have just found the committee."
"Do you know this?"
"They all know it; they would not have taken their position otherwise.
Next time, the stockholders will be put in evidence."
Gorham again became silent. This second shock, following so soon after the first, for a moment paralyzed his power to think, but he quickly recovered his optimism.
"I do not believe it—I will not believe it. But why do you tell me this?" he again asked. "There must be some purpose behind it all."
"There is. It is necessary for you to realize the exact position we are in. Your work has been with those about to become stockholders, or with the consolidations; I have been brought in personal contact with the stockholders and the directors. You have met the ideals, while I have come face to face with the actualities. For this reason I tell you that you are undertaking a more serious campaign than you realize, and I also tell you that, strong as you are, compromise and conciliation will eventually be required."
"Do I, then, stand alone?"
Covington resented the suggestion.
"There should be no question in your mind as to where I stand," he said. "My personal relations with you, and my hope of an even closer relationship, make any discussion unnecessary. But I see the situation from a viewpoint which you cannot, and my duty clearly demands that I express myself to you with complete frankness. I do not suggest that you give up your ideals—I simply urge you to compromise with them in order to win greater victories in the future."
"Covington," replied Gorham, with decision, "you know how much I value your judgment, how firmly I rely upon your loyalty. Because of this, I shall move with even greater care than so serious a crisis as this inevitably demands. Yet it is only fair to say to you now that I can see but one outcome. There are many conflicts which arise in life which admit of compromise—but you cannot compromise with truth, with virtue, or with honor. These attributes either exist, or they do not—there are no half-ways. Suppose you do a little thinking, too, along my line. Then we'll join together, taking advantage of this new knowledge which has come to us, and force the issue where we see the necessity. We are both trying to accomplish the same results, but are considering different routes. Think it over, my friend, and I feel sure that you will see that I am right."
His interview with Gorham left Covington with certain well-defined conclusions: Gorham would never yield one iota from his position, and his associates would not rest until they had wiped out this affront they had received. It would be necessary for him to take sides openly with Gorham or else make definite sacrifices. Yet he must hold the position he now had with the directors so as to be Gorham's successor in case the affair turned in that direction; and, most important of all, he must fortify himself still further against the breaking of the storm, which he knew would sooner or later come upon him.
In military conflicts there are various methods of winning a victory. When the adversary appears too strong for a direct battle, a skilful tactician will sometimes weaken the enemy's strength by a rear attack. Covington was a skilful tactician, and in the present crisis the affidavits he had stored away in his safe-deposit drawer tempted him sorely. He had never expected to use them, he told himself. He had never expected to be placed in opposition to Mr. Gorham. With the family alliance he contemplated, there would seem to be no occasion for conflicting interests to exist between them. But if Gorham insisted on making a fool of himself, there was really no good reason why Covington should allow himself to be dragged down with him. It was infinitely wiser to be in the position of "heads I win, tails you lose." Surely he could not be accused of selfishness in the matter, when, if Mr. Gorham were eventually dethroned by the directors, and he, Covington, crowned in his place, it would simply result in keeping the Consolidated Companies still in the family. And as for Gorham's silly threat to disintegrate the corporation—that was too absurd to be considered seriously.
So Covington again inspected the papers which Levy had secured for him. The one which related to Mrs. Buckner and the prospector he laid aside at once as too contemptible to be considered, but the other interested him. Gorham was setting himself above other men who held enviable positions in the business and social world. If this affidavit was true—and Covington saw no reason to doubt its authenticity—this demigod might hesitate to emphasize his superiority. With the legality of his marriage questioned, his Czarship might be weakened; and this, as Covington saw it, meant advantage to himself in the Consolidated Companies, and an insurance against any attitude Gorham might take against him. With Brady vowing vengeance, his part in unloading the railways stock on Alice might at any time be uncovered. With the present strained relations between Gorham and the Executive Committee, his confidential relations with both sides might prove disagreeable. But with Gorham himself entangled in a domestic complication, serious consequences to himself from such a catastrophe might be averted, or, at least, mitigated. And, best of all, Levy was quite ready to proceed in the matter with Buckner as his client. Surely Opportunity never offered herself with more brazen coquetry to any one than she did to John Covington.
All this resulted in a busy afternoon for Lawyer Levy. Covington returned the affidavit to him and left him free to proceed or not, as he saw fit. Levy's delight was unbounded—"it was such a nice case." Buckner was quickly summoned to the lawyer's office and a new agreement drawn between them, which gave special joy to Buckner, as it meant an increased supply of money and a renewed lease of life in New York City, which he had learned to "love." Besides the agreement, he was asked to sign a letter to Mrs. Gorham, which had been carefully worded by Levy and was filled with lurid descriptions of his affection and loneliness. He had accidentally become aware of the fact that their separation was not legal, and the unexpected knowledge had served to revive in him all the fondness of the early days. He had mastered the curse of drink which had brought about their estrangement, and needed her companionship and care. He regretted the inconvenience which it might occasion, but Mr. Gorham had everything while he had nothing but the affection which he felt for her—and that as she was now, and always had been his wife, he demanded his rights.
Levy had known men to change their minds, and in order to prevent any such misfortune he despatched the letter by special messenger early in the evening. Gorham had returned late and betook himself to the library immediately after dinner to consider the new business complications with great care before grappling with the situation on the following day. He was still meditating when he was surprised to see Eleanor enter the room, with an expression on her face which at once made him forget his own perplexities.
"Why, Eleanor!" he cried, "what has gone wrong with you?"
Mrs. Gorham took her favorite seat on the arm of her husband's chair, and he drew her to him.
"I saw Ralph Buckner while out driving a few weeks ago," she said in response to his question. "It unnerved me at the time, and I have been apprehensive ever since. I did not tell you about it, as there seemed nothing on which to base my fears, and you were so occupied. I hesitate even now to add to your burdens, but this letter has just come, and you should see it."
As she spoke she placed the open letter in his hand, and he read it carefully.
"There can be nothing to this—can there?" she asked, her lip trembling and her whole expression showing how eagerly she awaited his answer.
"Eleanor," he said, softly, drawing her onto his lap, and soothing her with the tenderness a mother would have shown an anxious child. He held her pressed closely to him for so long a time in silence that at last she became frightened She sat upright and, placing a hand on either shoulder, regarded him searchingly.
"Robert," she cried, aghast, "you don't believe—"
Then he told her the news which James Riley had brought him, and of his efforts to learn more.
"No, dear, I don't believe it," Gorham finally answered her unfinished question. "No power on earth could make me believe it until they proved it; and even then no power could take you from me."
"But it must be proved one way or the other."
"There will be no need," Gorham replied, with a lightness he did not feel; "I will find this man and will settle it for all time."
"How will you settle it, Robert?"
"He is doing this for money. Now that he has come out into the open, I can take care of him."
"But that won't do, dear. If there is any question about the divorce, your buying him off won't settle it, will it?"
"It must," was Gorham's decisive answer.
"It can't." Eleanor rose and regarded him with an infinite tenderness. "It can't, Robert; you know it can't, dear. If the divorce is not legal, then there was no marriage between us, and what Ralph Buckner says or does cannot affect that. We must know the facts now, dear."
"In all probability the divorce was perfectly regular. It is questioned now purely for blackmailing purposes; but I will submit to that, if necessary, rather than have the matter go any further. Don't be quixotic and play into the hands of these scoundrels who have gotten hold of Buckner, and are trying to reach me through you, knowing well that this is my vulnerable point."
Mrs. Gorham was so long silent that her husband felt his argument had won.
"Eleanor," he said more calmly, "can you ever fully realize what you are to me? All these gigantic transactions which have fallen to my lot mean only so many contests with the world that I may bring my victories back to you. The struggle is inspiring, the strife is intoxicating while it is on, but how hollow the successes except for you! My life and all its activities are centred about this one inmost shrine in which I mean to keep you, unsullied by even the implied contamination which these blackmailers would bring upon you. I will fight them with their own weapons, and, thank God, I can ward off the blow."
"Robert—my Robert!" Mrs. Gorham's voice was low but masterful in the force which lay behind the words. "Nothing can ever come to me so bitter as to make me forget that this has caused you to say what you have just said. You mean every word, and to have won such devotion from such a man is enough to make any woman's life complete. But it is your heart which speaks, and our sober judgment must acknowledge without a question the necessity of settling beyond the reach of doubt the validity of the legal tie which binds us. We need no court to settle the question of our love, my Robert—that is the real marriage which I know God only recognizes; but there can be no happiness for us if we disregard even for a moment those conventions which are necessary to our every-day life. You know it, dear, just as I do."
"It is unnecessary, Eleanor—it is unwise. We are so certain that there is no real basis for doubt."
"Would you feel the same if Alice were involved?" she asked, quietly.
"Alice?" he repeated.
"Yes; suppose this same question came up with her, would you not be the first to insist that the facts be proven?"
"What can I say?" he asked, brokenly. "This means a public trial and all the scandal that goes with it. It means a rehearsing of all that past which I have tried to help you to forget. It means pain and sorrow and suffering to you, dear—to you whom I would shield with my life from just what now threatens you."
"A trial, Robert?" Mrs. Gorham asked, looking at him with a startled expression. "Do you mean that there has to be a trial?"
"Of course," Gorham replied, wondering at the unexpected change in her attitude.
Suddenly she buried her face against his shoulder and burst into tears.
"Oh, I couldn't stand that!" she cried.
Gorham gently held her face from him and looked into it kindly but questioningly. "Why not?" he asked.
"It would kill me," she replied, not meeting his look.
"Is there anything which the trial could bring out which you have not already told me, Eleanor?" he asked, quietly.
"Don't you know enough already to understand why I could never live through it?"
Gorham urged no further and caressed her gently, yet there was an expression of distinct disappointment in his face.
"There must be no trial," he said, firmly. "You shall be shielded from that and from everything else which threatens to bring you sorrow. You must leave it all in my hands."
XXIII
Allen went over the list of names lying on the desk before him for a third time, carefully running down the column with his finger. Then he leaned back in his chair and reflected. The single light flooded the desk and cast its shadows out into the great office, but the boy's eyes never left the papers before him.
"That's mighty strange," he said aloud. "I'll bet Lady Pat got it straight, but if she did that list ought to show it."
He leaned forward again and turned to the early pages. "Courtney,
Cousens, Covell, Coveney—Covington ought to come in right there." Then
he turned the pages over rapidly—"Goodrich, Goodspeed, Goodwin, Gordon,
Gore—there isn't any Gorham there, either."
For several moments he sat there deep in thought. Suddenly he rose and struck the top of the desk a resounding blow with his fist.
"Chump!" he cried. "Of course he didn't. Oh, I'm a great business man, I am, thinking he'd buy those shares in his own name or in Alice's. It's back to the dear old farm for me. Chump!"
He restored the papers to their proper places, picked up Patricia's bank, which he still had with him, turned out the light, and then tramped down the long flights of stairs to work off his excitement. He was disappointed not to have succeeded in this first attempt to prove his suspicions, but he found some consolation in the certainty which came to him, even in the face of this defeat, that he was on the right track.
For the next few days more immediate matters kept him completely occupied. Gorham told him enough of what had happened at the meeting to make him feel at once elated and concerned.
"You were right to a degree, my boy, and I give you credit for it; but don't think for a moment that there is going to be any change in the administration of the Consolidated Companies."
"You'll have a hard fight on your hands, Mr. Gorham. They aren't the kind of men to let you force them any longer than they have to."
"That will be as long as we remain associated in the corporation," Gorham said, with conviction. "It does mean a greater burden for me and for Covington and for you, as for all those who remain loyal, but the game is worth the struggle. This is what makes life worth living, boy. Struggles are nothing—I've had them always; it's only the lost faith which slips in under one's guard and stings."
Allen longed to ask just where Covington claimed to stand, but he dreaded further imputations as to the motives underlying his question. Then, later, it occurred to him that he might take advantage of the new relations created by Covington himself. Watching his opportunity, he opened up the subject with a proper air of mystery.
"I wish you would advise me, Mr. Covington."
The words may have caused surprise, but Covington turned to the boy as though his remark were perfectly natural.
"I shall be glad to if I can," he said.
"You see, I don't quite know where I stand just now. There's evidently going to be a struggle between the chief and the committee, and I'd like to be put in right. How do you think it's going to turn out?"
Covington did not doubt the sincerity which Allen's words and tone apparently expressed.
"There is only one possible outcome," he replied, frankly. "Mr. Gorham will have to compromise or they will find a way to take his power away from him."
"But you don't think he will, do you?"
"He's bound to. No man except a fool is going to let his ideals rob him of his power, and Robert Gorham is no fool."
"No, but those ideals are pretty well developed."
"Of course they are, and he will hold to them as long as he can; but when Litchfield and the others begin to take real action, as they will soon, he will see things differently."
"Then you advise me to stick to him?"
Covington looked at him critically. "If I were you," he said, carefully, "I would stick to the Companies. I am with him, of course, but the clerks have no special obligation to any one. You have been closer to him than the others, but I don't suppose that is any reason why you shouldn't look out for yourself if a break comes. But personally, I'm not expecting any break."
"I never saw any one cotton so to anything as Mr. Gorham does to those ideals of his," Allen continued. "I believe he talks them all day and dreams them all night. It would break his heart to be obliged to take back water."
Covington laughed at the boy's simplicity. "Mr. Gorham was in business long before the Consolidated Companies was born, and from what they tell me he was a clever one even back there. His ideals didn't trouble him any then, yet he succeeded. He figures that it is necessary for him to test his strength against the committee at this point, and he has accomplished all he wants. He will play with them for a time, and eventually make a compromise which will fool them into thinking that they have carried their point, but which in reality will give him a still stronger grip on the Companies. Mr. Gorham has taught me a good many lessons, not the least of which is how to turn ideals into business assets. I would suggest that you don't give yourself a great deal of anxiety over his 'broken heart.'"
Covington's conversation with Allen was as frank and cordial as the boy could have asked, yet between the two there was a barrier beyond which Allen could not venture to pass. But the ice was broken, and this first conversation which approached even a semblance of friendliness might open the way for more important conferences in the future.
Gorham, during these days, was working hard to discover the real crux in Buckner's affairs. His secret-service men supplied him with a detailed record of the man's history, and reported frequent interviews between him and Levy or Levy's agents. Gorham had even seen the lawyer himself, but gained only a deeper conviction that it was a case of blackmail for revenue only. Levy laid before him all the papers in the case with praiseworthy frankness. He would even have extended his sympathy, except that his first efforts in this direction had not been received in the spirit he thought they should have been. If Buckner's statement was correct, there had been a cruel blunder on the part of Eleanor's counsel; yet unless he was certain of his ground, Gorham could not comprehend his daring to place himself in so dangerous a position. Already the machinery was in motion to settle this point, but so far the telegrams from the Colorado lawyers threw no light on the situation. James Riley made frequent reports, drawing liberal expense accounts each time he called, but as yet no single fact had been unearthed which gave any promise of relief. Gorham relished an open fight, but this guerilla warfare, threatening Eleanor's happiness and peace of mind, caused him real anxiety.
Eleanor's attitude throughout this period puzzled him not a little. The more he thought the matter over, the more convinced he was that she was right in her position that the question of the legality of the divorce must be settled once and for all and at whatever cost. There must be some way to arrive at this point without the necessity of a public trial, but even if it came to that the facts must be established. Yet as Gorham gradually came squarely over to his wife's viewpoint, Eleanor seemed to be coming nearer to accepting the one which he had originally advanced. This was what mystified him. He recognized that what she had told him, when they first talked the matter over, was the natural expression of the woman's self which he knew so well; her later attitude showed the influence of some factor in her life unknown to him. She had repeatedly been on the point of confiding to him, yet the confidence had never been given, and Gorham was not a man who could urge beyond what it was her voluntary desire to speak.
It never had occurred to him to take offence or to criticise Eleanor's attitude. He wished that she would come to him with the burden which lay so heavily upon her heart, but he wished it only because he felt that he could lighten it. Ever since the cloud had become apparent, his tenderness toward her had increased to such an extent that she felt herself weakened by his sympathy and swept along relentlessly by the flood of events which crowded one on top of another. He had told her that there should be no trial, and she showed him by every word and act that she depended blindly upon his ability to make good his promise.
The calm which existed at the offices of the Consolidated Companies during the fortnight succeeding the stormy session of the committee, while unexpected, did not lull Gorham into any false sense of security. Now that his vision had been cleared, he knew that it was their strength pitted against his own. He had his own plans for meeting this, but with supreme confidence in himself he preferred to let them make the first move. Covington had not retreated from his position that a compromise of some sort was desirable, but he succeeded in convincing Gorham that this was simply a difference in viewpoint, and that his chief's judgment would, of course, be final. Acting upon the definite authority which Gorham had forced from the committee to replace the tacit understanding which had existed from the first, he plunged ahead with renewed energy to perfect the organizations which the Companies had in hand. But while conscious that his associates were undoubtedly concentrating their energies upon some plan which might be used effectively against him, he was grateful for the postponement of the issue, in that it gave him time to work upon his present domestic problem.
Covington congratulated himself upon the happy solution of the most dangerous horn of his dilemma. He did not wish Gorham to yield, and he found that the more he urged him to compromise, the more firmly set he was against doing it. Thus he could accomplish his purpose, and at the same time put himself on record without risk of being called disloyal, while advising him for his own best good. The others were working hard, and Covington could have posted his chief upon many interesting points had he chosen to do so. Instead, he preferred to bring added pressure upon Alice to name an early date for their wedding. He seemed to have overlooked the fact that as yet she had not given him her formal consent, but as the event was apparently accepted by her father and Eleanor and Covington himself as a foregone conclusion, the girl took no definite exceptions to his attitude. He was, of course, aware of the family complications, and, in expressing his sympathy, explained that he could be of much greater assistance in helping to straighten matters out if he were actually included in the family circle.
But Covington, with all his astuteness, was frankly surprised by a piece of information which one of the committee confided to him; and this was nothing less than that unquestionable evidence had been secured that Gorham himself had, at least in one instance, taken advantage of his position for personal gain. What this instance was his informant could not at that moment say—the facts were being carefully compiled, but the evidence was beyond dispute. This autocrat, who talked of principle and honor, had been caught red-handed in the very act against which he pretended to stand; and, of course, this instance was but one of many. Doctor Jekyll could take it upon himself to deliver platitudes upon moral rectitude, while Mr. Hyde gathered in the shekels on the side!
The members of the Executive Committee were hugely pleased, and Covington no less so. All was playing into his hands with surprising directness, and he even began to feel that his approaching marriage into Mr. Gorham's family was an act of supreme sacrifice on his part. Still, it were better to safeguard both exits to the house, and Alice was an amusing little minx, after all.
XXIV
The elder Riley felt the tenseness in the atmosphere of the Gorham family, and his inability to discover the occasion for it proved trying to his soul. The mysterious visits of his son James, and the apparent confidences between him and his employer, made the old man feel strongly that, if James were not a part of the new condition, at least he was acquainted with the cause. Patience with Riley had ceased to be a virtue, and he so contrived it that he passed an evening with his son at the latter's lodgings.
Much to his relief, he found James in an unusually agreeable mood; and, although the younger man made no effort to move from the comfortable position he had assumed with the assistance of an extra chair for his feet, the welcome extended was far more cordial than that to which the elder Riley was accustomed.
"Well, well, well," the old man ejaculated, as he closed the door and stood for a moment contemplating the scene before him. James smiled complacently at the look of mingled surprise and admiration his father so plainly showed, as his eye roved from the new pieces of gaudy furniture to the box of cigars upon the table, particularly noting the attitude which the son assumed as the nearest he could imagine to that of a gentleman in repose.
"Well, well, well," Riley repeated, coming down to earth again, and seating himself upon a near-by chair not required for James's feet, which the host had been too preoccupied to think of offering. "Things is comin' good f'r ye, ain't they, Jimmie?"
The old man had discovered a fact which James had no desire to dispute, so he admitted it graciously, at the same time blowing clouds of smoke from his over-fragrant cigar.
"They is," he replied, sententiously; "and soon they'll be comin' better still."
"Ah, Jimmie"—the old man lowered his voice—"are ye goin' ter run f'r mayor?"
"Not—yet," James replied, dwelling upon his words in such a way as to convince his hearer that the delay was wholly a matter of his own convenience. "Politics is movin' some, father, but 'tis in my private capacity that I'm makin' my present strides."
"So," murmured Riley; "an' phwat may ye'er private capacity be, Jimmie?"
"'Tis of a confidential nature," he replied, loftily.
"Has it ter do wid Misther Robert?"
"Him—and others."
"Who is th' others?" the old man persisted.
"That's my affair. 'Tis confidential, I tell you."
"Not wid me, Jimmie," Riley begged; "not when I've watched over Misther Robert iver sence he was a little la-ad, not wid me when I've brought ye up fr'm a howlin' little brat. There can't be nothin' confidential, I tell ye, when it's affectin' thim I loves best in all th' whole wide world. Shure ye'll tell me about it, Jimmie, shure ye will."
In James's present mood, it was easier to talk than to keep silent. If his father really knew the importance of the part he felt himself to be playing in Mr. Gorham's family complication, the old man's appreciation of his son's true position in the community could not fail to be enhanced. James Riley's most vulnerable point was his vanity, and the present opportunity to gratify it was more than he could well resist. The elder Riley, without having analyzed his son's characteristics to this extent, was intuitively conscious of a yielding to his appeal, and he was not slow to follow it up.
"That's th' good la-ad, Jimmie," he said, coaxingly. "Ye knows how tight
I keeps me mouth shut; an' phwat hits ye or Misther Robert hits me."
"Well," James replied, indulgently, blowing another cloud of smoke—"'tis his wife that it's all about."
"His wife!" the old man repeated, surprised and excited—"about Mrs.
Gorham, d'ye say?"
"That is—provided she is his wife. There is them that says she ain't."
"Who says she ain't?" Riley almost shouted the words as he rose excitedly to his feet. "Who says she ain't? By God, I'll kill th' man phwat says that!"
"Slowly, slowly," James answered, soothingly, thoroughly enjoying his father's amazement and excitement. "That's for them to settle as knows how, but it's to me Mr. Gorham must look to help him out. Now, do you understand where I come in?"
"Ah, Jimmie, ye're killin' me wid yer slowness. Out wid it, la-ad! What do they say, an' who done phwat? Out wid it!"
"The divorce was crooked, so they say; and now her first husband is here in New York and wants her back."
"But it ain't true, Jimmie—it ain't true; tell me that."
"I don't know yet myself," James admitted; "but there's a few things I do know what ought to be worth the coin to Mr. Gorham."
"An' ye're goin' ter give 'em ter him?"
"Perhaps," James replied, indifferently—"if he thinks they're worth what I do."
"But Misther Robert has paid ye already, hasn't he? Hasn't these new prosperity things come out iv Misther Robert's pay?"
"He's got what he's paid for," James asserted. "These new tips come to me while I was workin' on my own account. They're worth the coin to either side."
"That's phwat ye meant when ye said there was more prosperity comin'?"
"Sure."
"An' if Misther Robert don't pay ye ye'er price, ye'll sell 'em ter th' other feller who says his wife ain't his wife?"
"Business is business," James replied, sagely.
The elder Riley's lips came close together as he rose quietly yet quickly from his chair. In a moment more he had seized James by the collar, and with a sudden, violent action, made easier by the recumbent attitude, deposited the younger man in a heap on the floor. Too surprised by the unexpectedness of the attack, James made no defence, and before he could even attempt to rise from his humiliating position the old man stood over him, shaking his fist in his face.
"Ye damn dirty spalpeen, lie there f'r a time, will ye? I'll break ivery bone in ye'er body if ye even make a move ter git up. Do ye think I've spint me life f'r nothin' better than ter rear up a blackmailer an' th' like iv ye? Do ye think me an' th' ol' woman, God rist her soul, slaved th' flesh off our bones f'r nothin' better than ter raise a brat who'd sell th' man whose hand was always out f'r me an' mine? It's ye'er fa-ather talkin' ter ye now, James Riley, an' it's ye'er fa-ather who's goin' ter scrape off some iv thim fine airs thim Tammany thieves an' blacklegs has learned ye. It's manny th' time I've licked ye good, Jimmie, when ye was a la-ad, an' it's agin I'll do it if I has ter, ter learn ye honesty. Now git up an' set in that chair an' do phwat I tell ye, if ye know phwat's best f'r ye."
James Riley rose from the floor and sat obediently in the chair his father indicated. Had he chosen to assert his strength, the elder man would have been but a child in opposition; but the fire which flashed from those angry eyes, and the tone in which his father's scathing castigation was administered, took him back twenty years when the same angry flash and the same convincing tones were backed up by a physical force which made them worthy of respect. James Riley was again the offending boy, and his father—stern, severe, unrelenting in his own ideas of right and wrong—held him in a grip he could not break.
"Set there, damn ye," the elder Riley repeated, breathing hard from excitement and from the unusual exertion. "Now tell me phwat ye found out when ye was workin' on ye'er own account."
James tried desperately to summon courage enough to oppose his father's will, but to no avail.
"I've mixed a bit with Buckner—the first husband—that's all."
"An' phwat did ye find out?" Riley demanded, sternly.
James hesitated.
"Out wid it!" the old man shouted.
"He's been married again since."
"Ah, ha! th' feller phwat says me Misther Robert's wife ain't his wife, 'cause th' divorce warn't reg'lar, has been married agin, has he?" Riley's good-humor began to return with this cheerful bit of information. "Then that makes him a liar or a Mormon—take ye'er choice. Which do ye think it is, Jimmie?"
"Liar," James replied, sententiously.
"Right ye are, Jimmie! Right ye are! Liar it is, tho' 'twud serve him right ter be th' other. An' where's his second wife?"
"That's what's a-worryin' him; he don't know."
"Ah, ha!" Riley chuckled, "why shouldn't it? It's bad enough when th' wife don't know where ye are, but when ye don't know where th' wife is an' her apt ter turn up anny minnit! Ah, let him worry; it's good f'r him. What else did ye find out by ye'er mixin's?"
"That's all, so far, but I can get more. Buckner likes me."
The old man's passing amusement was gone, and his indignation returned with full force.
"P'r'aps ye can git th' likin's iv a man who says me Misther Robert's wife ain't his wife, but 'twill be healthier f'r ye if ye gits th' likin's iv Misther Robert himself. Now, ye'll go ter him to-morrer mornin'—d'ye mind—an' ye'll tell him all ye've tol' me, an' there won't be no price asked, an' ye'll keep on findin' out all ye can f'r Misther Robert, an' ye'll play fair, an' ye'll take phwat pay he chooses ter give ye, an' if ye thry anny more thricks like th' dirty wan I've just catched ye wid I'll be back ter see ye, James Riley, an' I'll break ivery damn bone in ye'er body, James Riley. Now, good-night ter ye an' ye'er prosperities. I'll tell Misther Robert ye'll be up ter see him at nine o'clock to-morrer mornin'."
The old man drew himself up majestically, cast one more withering glance on the completely humiliated James, and took his departure.
The next morning nine had not ceased striking on the clock standing on the mantelpiece in Mr. Gorham's study when James Riley was formally and seriously ushered by his father into these, the sacred precincts, where none entered except by its owner's invitation; but it was a far different James from the man who had called upon Mr. Gorham some weeks earlier. The younger Riley's self-assurance was missing, his jaunty air was replaced by a bearing almost timid in its gentleness, his voice had become halty; and when Mr. Gorham first spoke to him he started suddenly, turning his face toward his questioner, and showing apprehension in every feature.
Gorham noticed the change, and, being ignorant of the tragic events of the evening before, was frankly surprised.
"Have you been ill, James?" he inquired, quietly.
"Oh, no, sir—I'm feeling very well, I thank you, sir," James answered in a quick, frightened voice.
"I am glad to hear it," Gorham answered, but his tone suggested incredulity.
"I have been some worrited lately," James added, by way of explanation.
"I s'pose you knows how that tells on a feller, sir."
"Yes, James," Gorham agreed. "It comes to all of us sooner or later. Now tell me what is the important information which your father promised me you would bring with you ?"
"Hasn't he told you, sir?"
"Not a word, James. Has it to do with the matter you have been working on for me, or is it some trouble of your own which has caused the worry you speak of?"
James was seated on the edge of his chair with his thin hands folded and resting on his knees. His eyes roved about the room, looking anywhere except into Mr. Gorham's face. As a matter of fact, he had in reality passed through some "worrited" times since his father's call, and his humiliation was complete. It was a relief to him to know that his father had not discussed the matter with Mr. Gorham, but even that consolation was not equal to the task of restoring him to his former equinimity.
"Well," interrogated Mr. Gorham, helpfully, striving to assist him in what was evidently a serious undertaking.
"You see, sir," James began, "there's another Mrs. Buckner."
"What!" cried Gorham, genuinely surprised and rising from his chair.
"Buckner has been married again, you say?"
"That's what I understand, sir; leastwise that's what he told me. He was drunk when he said it, and perhaps that's why he did say it; but I believe it's true."
James had the satisfaction of witnessing a sight which few men had seen during Mr. Gorham's lifetime—he was visibly excited, and, what was stranger still, he made no effort to conceal his emotion.
"If there is anything in what you say, James, this information is the most cheering piece of news which I have heard for many a day. Now tell me all you know about it."
In another half-hour James Riley was painfully making his way to the nearest subway station, giving no indication, either in his face or in his movements, as to whether the result of his mission had turned out more or less favorably, in its financial probabilities, than would have been the case had he followed his original intentions. He had found his father waiting for him in the front hall after he came down-stairs from Mr. Gorham's library, but the only remark the old man vouchsafed was, "Have ye done phwat I told ye, Jimmie?" Then the door swung upon its hinges while the younger man went out, leaving his father chuckling softly.
"Jimmie's th' fine la-ad, afther all," Riley muttered quietly to himself. "He has th' temptations same as we all has, but he seen his duty when his fa-ather shown it ter him." Then the old man became reflective. "It's sorry I'd 'a' been ter have had ter mess Jimmie all up," he continued—"but I'd 'a' done it. It's lucky f'r him he didn't show fight; it's lucky f'r him, I'm tellin' ye."
In the mean time Gorham had sought Eleanor and Alice, and told them the news which had come to him so unexpectedly. The problem now was to find the second Mrs. Buckner, and as quickly as possible. James had explained to Mr. Gorham that even Buckner himself did not know where the woman was. He had lived in several cities during the last few years. His wife might have died or moved away; but as Gorham pointed out in answer to the doubts Eleanor and his daughter expressed, if it was a fact, there must be a way to find conclusive evidence.
"I cannot delay a moment," Gorham at length declared. "It will take some time at best to run this matter down, and with the certainty so near at hand to prove our fears groundless, I am all impatience to take steps toward securing the actual evidence itself. It is imperative that I leave for Chicago to-morrow, and I must get this investigation under way before then."
Eleanor and Alice sat for some moments in silence after Gorham left the house. The girl watched the older woman, waiting for her to speak. The anxious lines were still in Eleanor's face; her pallor remained, and Alice wondered that she gave no evidence of relief from the nerve-racking strain which she had endured, in the face of so hopeful a turn in the whole situation. Still more, to the girl's surprise, Eleanor rose abruptly from beside her, and walked irresolutely to the window.
"I cannot, I cannot," she cried at last, all the pent-up feeling of the last few moments finding expression in these brief words. Alice was quickly beside her.
"You cannot do what, dear?" she asked, sympathetically.
"I cannot tell him."
"Haven't you told him yet?" Alice asked, a shade of reproach showing in her voice.
Eleanor turned from the window and passed her arm around Alice's waist.
"I have tried a hundred times. The few opportunities when I might have done so naturally found me too weak; at other times it has been impossible. Robert is so sweet and tender with me these days that the mere possibility of having him blame me is the most terrifying thought which I can have."
"It ought not to be so hard now, dear. Everything is going to be straightened out. Already the burden is a good deal lighter than before because now we have something tangible to work upon. This leaves you simply the one thing to think about, and of course father will believe everything you tell him."
Eleanor looked at Alice irresolutely. "It isn't in the nature of man to be so credulous—I doubt if I would believe the story myself if I heard any one else tell it. Under these circumstances, how can I expect more from your father?"
"Because it is—father," the girl replied, feelingly "—because he's the grandest, noblest, truest man who ever lived; because he loves you, Eleanor; and because he believes in you as he believes in himself."
"If I did not know of this belief in me, Alice dear, and was not so jealous of it, perhaps I should not fear to bring the matter to the test. But, of course, you are right. He must know the whole story, and he must know it from me. I only hope that the opportunity may offer itself naturally for me to tell him, under such conditions as will make it appear less incredible than it does just now."
"It doesn't seem to me that that ought to enter into it at all," Alice continued, quietly. "Even if you knew that it would destroy this belief, you could do nothing else than tell him, could you, Eleanor? There could be nothing good come from anything kept from father."
Eleanor felt reproached by the faith which the girl exhibited. "I have done it to spare him," she urged. "If there had been anything in the experience of which I need feel ashamed, I should have felt it necessary to let him know it before we were married. I thought it all over then, and decided it was wiser not to bring the matter up. It was weak and cowardly not to do it, I can see that now, but at the time I thought I was acting for the best."
"If father were to tell you something about his life which seemed incredible, and which might be misinterpreted into something dishonorable to him, would you believe his version of it?"
"Implicitly," Eleanor replied, with much feeling.
"Then do you think he is less loving or less tender or has less faith than you, Eleanor?"
"Not that, dear," Eleanor replied; "but he is a man, and a man's standpoint is essentially different from a woman's."
"I never think of him as a man," the girl replied, simply. "He is so far above and beyond any man I have ever known that I have never thought of him as only that."