Francis Leggett & Co. - "Tea Leaves"

Charlotte M. Yonge - "Scenes and Characters"

Charles Dickens - "Sketches by Boz"

Unknown - "Human Genome Project, Chromosome 9"

The Metropolis

U >> Upton Sinclair >> The Metropolis




When Siegfried Harvey talked, he looked straight at one with his
clear blue eyes, and there was no doubting his honesty. "I am very
much obliged to you," said Montague. "Pray tell me what you have to
say."

"All right," said the other. "It can be done very quickly. You have
taken a case which involves a great many sacrifices upon your part.
And I wondered if it had ever occurred to you to ask whether you
might not be taken advantage of?"

"How do you mean?" asked Montague.

"Do you know the people who are behind you?" inquired the other. "Do
you know them well enough to be sure what are their motives in the
case?"

Montague hesitated, and thought. "No," he said, "I couldn't say that
I do."

"Then it's just as I thought," replied Harvey. "I've been watching
you--you are an honest man, and you're putting yourself to no end of
trouble from the best of motives. And unless I'm mistaken, you're
being used by men who are not honest, and whom you wouldn't work
with if you knew their purposes."

"What purposes could they have?"

"There are several possibilities. In the first place, it might be a
'strike' suit--somebody who is hoping to be bought off for a big
price. That is what nearly every one thinks is the case. But I
don't; I think it's more likely some one within the company who is
trying to put the administration in a hole."

"Who could that be?" exclaimed Montague, amazed.

"I don't know that. I'm not familiar enough with the situation in
the Fidelity--it's changing all the time. I simply know that there
are factions struggling for the control of it, and hating each other
furiously, and ready to do anything in the world to cripple each
other. You know that their forty millions of surplus gives an
enormous power; I'd rather be able to swing forty millions in the
Street than to have ten millions in my own right. And so the giants
are fighting for the control of those companies; and you can't tell
who's in and who's out--you can never know the real meaning of
anything that happens in the struggle. All that you can be sure of
is that the game is crooked from end to end, and that nothing that
happens in it is what it pretends to be."

Montague listened, half dazed, and feeling as if the ground he stood
on were caving beneath his feet.

"What do you know about those who brought you this case?" asked his
companion, suddenly.

"Not much," he said weakly.

Harvey hesitated a moment. "Understand me, please," he said. "I've
no wish to pry into your affairs, and if you don't care to say any
more, I'll understand it perfectly. But I've heard it said that the
man who started the thing was Ellis."

Montague, in his turn, hesitated; then he said, "That is
correct--between you and me."

"Very good," said Harvey, "and that is what made me suspicious. Do
you know anything about Ellis?"

"I didn't," said the other. "I've heard a little since."

"I can fancy so," said Harvey. "And I can tell you that Ellis is
mixed up in life-insurance matters in all sorts of dubious ways. It
seems to me that you have reason to be most careful where you follow
him."

Montague sat with his hands clenched and his brows knitted. His
friend's talk had been like a flash of lightning; it revealed huge
menacing forms in the darkness about him. All the structure of his
hopes seemed to be tottering; his case, that he had worked so hard
over--his fifty thousand dollars that he had been so proud of! Could
it be that he had been tricked, and had made a fool of himself?

"How in the world am I to know?" he cried.

"That is more than I can tell," said his friend. "And for that
matter, I'm not sure that you could do anything now. All that I
could do was to warn you what sort of ground you were treading on,
so that you could watch out for yourself in future."

Montague thanked him heartily for that service; and then he went
back to his office, and spent the rest of the day pondering the
matter.

What he had heard had made a vast change in things. Before it
everything had seemed simple; and now nothing was clear. He was
overwhelmed with a sense of the utter futility of his efforts; he
was trying to build a house upon quicksands. There was nowhere a
solid spot upon which he could set his foot. There was nowhere any
truth--there were only contending powers who used the phrases of
truth for their own purposes! And now he saw himself as the world
saw him,--a party to a piece of trickery,--a knave like all the
rest. He felt that he had been tripped up at the first step in his
career.

The conclusion of the whole matter was that he took an afternoon
train for Albany; and the next morning he talked the matter out with
the Judge. Montague had realized the need of going slowly, for,
after all, he had no definite ground for suspicion; and so, very
tactfully and cautiously he explained, that it had come to his ears
that many people believed there were interested parties behind the
suit of Mr. Hasbrook; and that this had made him uncomfortable, as
he knew nothing whatever about his client. He had come to ask the
Judge's advice in the matter.

No one could have taken the thing more graciously than did the great
man; he was all kindness and tact. In the first place, he said, he
had warned him in advance that enemies would attack him and slander
him, and that all kinds of subtle means would be used to influence
him. And he must understand that these rumours were part of such a
campaign; it made no difference how good a friend had brought them
to him--how could he know who had brought them to that friend?

The Judge ventured to hope that nothing that anyone might say could
influence him to believe that he, the Judge, would have advised him
to do anything improper.

"No," said Montague, "but can you assure me that there are no
interested parties behind Mr. Hasbrook?"

"Interested parties?" asked the other.

"I mean people connected with the Fidelity or other insurance
companies."

"Why, no," said the Judge; "I certainly couldn't assure you of
that."

Montague looked surprised. "You mean you don't know?"

"I mean," was the answer, "that I wouldn't feel at liberty to tell,
even if I did know."

And Montague stared at him; he had not been prepared for this
frankness.

"It never occurred to me," the other continued, "that that was a
matter which could make any difference to you."

"Why--" began Montague.

"Pray understand me, Mr. Montague," said the Judge. "It seemed to me
that this was obviously a just case, and it seemed so to you. And
the only other matter that I thought you had a right to be assured
of was that it was seriously meant. Of that I felt assured. It did
not seem to me of any importance that there might be interested
individuals behind Mr. Hasbrook. Let us suppose, for instance, that
there were some parties who had been offended by the administration
of the Fidelity, and were anxious to punish it. Could a lawyer be
justified in refusing to take a just case, simply because he knew of
such private motives? Or, let us assume an extreme case--a
factional fight within the company, as you say has been suggested to
you. Well, that would be a case of thieves falling out; and is there
any reason why the public should not reap the advantage of such a
situation? The men inside the company are the ones who would know
first what is going on; and if you saw a chance to use such an
advantage in a just fight--would you not do it?"

So the Judge went on, gracious and plausible--and so subtly and
exquisitely corrupting! Underneath his smoothly flowing sentences
Montague could feel the presence of one fundamental thought; it was
unuttered and even unhinted, but it pervaded the Judge's discourse as a
mood pervades a melody. The young lawyer had got a big fee, and he had a
nice easy case; and as a man of the world, he could not really wish to
pry into it too closely. He had heard gossip, and felt that his
reputation required him to be disturbed; but he had come, simply to be
smoothed down the back and made at ease, and enabled to keep his fee
without losing his good opinion of himself.

Montague quit, because he concluded that it was not worth while to
try to make himself understood. After all, he was in the case now,
and there was nothing to be gained by a breach. Two things he felt
that he had made certain by the interview--first, that his client
was a "dummy," and that it was really a case of thieves falling out;
and second, that he had no guarantee that he might not be left in
the lurch at any moment--except the touching confidence of the
Judge in some parties unknown.






CHAPTER XIX





Montague came home with his mind made up that there was nothing he
could do except to be more careful next time. For this mistake he
would have to pay the price.

He had still to learn what the full price was. The day after his
return there came a caller--Mr. John C. Burton, read his card. He
proved to be a canvassing agent for the company which published the
scandal-sheet of Society. They were preparing a de luxe account of
the prominent families of New York; a very sumptuous affair, with a
highly exclusive set of subscribers, at the rate of fifteen hundred
dollars per set. Would Mr. Montague by any chance care to have his
family included?

And Mr. Montague explained politely that he was a comparative
stranger in New York, and would not belong properly in such a
volume. But the agent was not satisfied with this. There might be
reasons for his subscribing, even so; there might be special cases;
Mr. Montague, as a stranger, might not realize the important nature
of the offer; after he had consulted his friends, he might change
his mind--and so on. As Montague listened to this series of broad
hints, and took in the meaning of them, the colour mounted, to his
cheeks--until at last he rose abruptly and bid the man good
afternoon.

But then as he sat alone, his anger died away, and there was left
only discomfort and uneasiness. And three or four days later he
bought another issue of the paper, and sure enough, there was a new
paragraph!

He stood on the street-corner reading it. The social war was raging
hotly, it said; and added that Mrs. de Graffenried was threatening
to take up the cause of the strangers. Then it went on to picture a
certain exquisite young man of fashion who was rushing about among
his friends to apologize for his brother's indiscretions. Also, it
said, there was a brilliant social queen, wife of a great banker,
who had taken up the cudgels.--And then came three sentences more,
which made the blood leap like flame into Montague's cheeks:

"There have not been lacking comments upon her suspicious ardour. It
has been noticed that since the advent of the romantic-looking
Southerner, this restless lady's interest in the Babists and the
trance mediums has waned; and now Society is watching for the
denouement of a most interesting situation."

To Montague these words came like a blow in the face. He went on
down the street, half dazed. It seemed to him the blackest shame
that New York had yet shown him. He clenched his fists as he walked,
whispering to himself, "The scoundrels!"

He realized instantly that he was helpless. Down home one would
have thrashed the editor of such a paper; but here he was in the
wolves' own country, and he could do nothing. He went back to his
office, and sat down at the desk.

"My dear Mrs. Winnie," he wrote. "I have just read the enclosed
paragraph, and I cannot tell you how profoundly pained I am that
your kindness to us should have made you the victim of such an
outrage. I am quite helpless in the matter, except to enable you to
avoid any further annoyance. Please believe me when I say that we
shall all of us understand perfectly if you think that we had best
not meet again at present; and that this will make no difference
whatever in our feelings."

This letter Montague sent by a messenger; and then he went home.
Perhaps ten minutes after he arrived, the telephone bell rang--and
there was Mrs. Winnie.

"Your note has come," she said. "Have you an. engagement this
evening?"

"No," he answered.

"Well," she said, "will you come to dinner?"

"Mrs. Winnie--" he protested.

"Please come," she said. "Please!"

"I hate to have you--" he began.

"I wish you to come!" she said, a third time.

So he answered, "Very well."

He went; and when he entered the house, the butler led him to the
elevator, saying, "Mrs. Duval says will you please come upstairs,
sir." And there Mrs. Winnie met him, with flushed cheeks and eager
countenance.

She was even lovelier than usual, in a soft cream-coloured gown, and
a crimson rose in her bosom. "I'm all alone to-night," she said, "so
we'll dine in my apartments. We'd be lost in that big room
downstairs."

She led him into her drawing-room, where great armfuls of new roses
scattered their perfume. There was a table set for two, and two big
chairs before the fire which blazed in the hearth. Montague noticed
that her hand trembled a little, as she motioned him to one of them;
he could read her excitement in her whole aspect. She was flinging
down the gauntlet to her enemies!

"Let us eat first and talk afterward," she said, hurriedly. "We'll
be happy for a while, anyway."

And she went on to be happy, in her nervous and eager way. She
talked about the new opera which was to be given, and about Mrs. de
Graffenried's new entertainment, and about Mrs. Ridgley-Clieveden's
ball; also about the hospital for crippled children which she wanted
to build, and about Mrs. Vivie Patton's rumoured divorce. And,
meantime, the sphinx-like attendants amoved here and there, and the
dinner came and went. They took their coffee in the big chairs by
the fire; and the table was swept clear, and the servants vanished,
closing the doors behind them.

Then Montague set his cup aside, and sat gazing sombrely into the
fire. And Mrs. Winnie watched him. There was a long silence.

Suddenly he heard her voice. "Do you find it so easy to give up our
friendship?" she asked.

"I didn't think about it's being easy or hard," he answered. "I
simply thought of protecting you."

"And do you think that my friends are nothing to me?" she demanded.
"Have I so very many as that?" And she clenched her hands with a
sudden passionate gesture. "Do you think that I will let those
wretches frighten me into doing what they want? I'll not give in to
them--not for anything that Lelia can do!"

A look of perplexity crossed Montague's face. "Lelia?" he asked.

"Mrs. Robbie Walling!" she cried. "Don't you suppose that she is
responsible for that paragraph?"

Montague started.

"That's the way they fight their battles!" cried Mrs. Winnie. "They
pay money to those scoundrels to be protected. And then they send
nasty gossip about people they wish to injure."

"You don't mean that!" exclaimed the man.

"Of course I do," cried she. "I know that it's true! I know that
Robbie Walling paid fifteen thousand dollars for some trumpery
volumes that they got out! And how do you suppose the paper gets its
gossip?"

"I didn't know," said Montague. "But I never dreamed--"

"Why," exclaimed Mrs. Winnie, "their mail is full of blue and gold
monogram stationery! I've known guests to sit down and write gossip
about their hostesses in their own homes. Oh, you've no idea of
people's vileness!"

"I had some idea," said Montague, after a pause.--"That was why I
wished to protect you."

"I don't wish to be protected!" she cried, vehemently. "I'll not
give them the satisfaction. They wish to make me give you up, and
I'll not do it, for anything they can say!"

Montague sat with knitted brows, gazing into the fire. "When I read
that paragraph," he said slowly. "I could not bear to think of the
unhappiness it might cause you. I thought of how much it might
disturb your husband--"

"My husband!" echoed Mrs. Winnie.

There was a hard tone in her voice, as she went on. "He will fix it
up with them," she said,--"that's his way. There will be nothing
more published, you can feel sure of that."

Montague sat in silence. That was not the reply he had expected, and
it rather disconcerted him.

"If that were all--" he said, with hesitation. "But I could not
know. I thought that the paragraph might disturb him for another
reason--that it might be a cause of unhappiness between you and
him--"

There was a pause. "You don't understand," said Mrs. Winnie, at
last.

Without turning his head he could see her hands, as they lay upon
her knees. She was moving them nervously. "You don't understand,"
she repeated.

When she began to' speak again, it was in a low, trembling voice. "I
must tell you," she said; "I have felt sure that you did not know."

There was another pause. She hesitated, and her hands trembled; then
suddenly she'hurried on.--"I wanted you to know. I do not love my
husband. I am not bound to him. He has nothing to say in my
affairs."

Montague sat rigid, turned to stone. He was half dazed by the words.
He could feel Mrs. Winnie's gaze fixed upon him; and he could feel
the hot flush that spread over her throat and cheeks.

"It--it was not fair for you not to know," she whispered. And her
voice died away, and there was again a silence. Montague was dumb.

"Why don't you say something?" she panted, at last; and he caught
the note of anguish in her voice. Then he turned and stared at her,
and saw her tightly clenched hands, and the quivering of her lips.

He was shocked quite beyond speech. And he saw her bosom heaving
quickly, and saw the tears start into her eyes. Suddenly she sank
down, and covered her face with her hands and broke into frantic
sobbing.

"Mrs. Winnie!" he cried; and started to his feet.

Her outburst continued. He saw that she was shuddering violently.
"Then you don't love me!" she wailed.

He stood trembling and utterly bewildered. "I'm so sorry!" he
whispered. "Oh, Mrs. Winnie--I had no idea--"

"I know it! I know it!" she cried. "It's my fault! I was a fool! I
knew it all the time. But I hoped--I thought you might, if you
knew--"

And then again her tears choked her; she was convulsed with pain and
grief.

Montague stood watching her, helpless with distress. She caught hold
of the arm of the chair, convulsively, and he put his hand upon
hers.

"Mrs. Winnie--" he began.

But she jerked her hand away and hid it. "No, no!" she cried, in
terror. "Don't touch me!"

And suddenly she looked up at him, stretching out her arms. "Don't
you understand that I love you?" she exclaimed. "You despise me for
it, I know--but I can't help it. I will tell you, even so! It's the
only satisfaction I can have. I have always loved you! And I
thought--I thought it was only that you didn't understand. I was
ready to brave all the world--I didn't care who knew it, or what
anybody said. I thought we could be happy--I thought I could be free
at last. Oh, you've no idea how unhappy I am--and how lonely--and
how I longed to escape! And I believed that you--that you might--"

And then the tears gushed into Mrs. Winnie's eyes again, and her
voice became the voice of a little child.

"Don't you think that you might come to love me?" she wailed.

Her voice shook Montague, so that he trembled to the depths of him.
But his face only became the more grave.

"You despise me because I told you!" she exclaimed.

"No, no, Mrs. Winnie," he said. "I could not possibly do that--"

"Then--then why--" she whispered.--"Would it be so hard to love me?"

"It would be very easy," he said, "but I dare not let myself."

She looked at him piteously. "You are so cold--so merciless!" she
cried.

He answered nothing, and she sat trembling. "Have you ever loved a
woman?" she asked.

There was a long pause. He sat in the chair again. "Listen, Mrs.
Winnie"--he began at last.

"Don't call me that!" she exclaimed. "Call me Evelyn--please."

"Very well," he said--"Evelyn. I did not intend to make you
unhappy--if I had had any idea, I should never have seen you again.
I will tell you--what I have never told anybody before. Then you
will understand."

He sat for a few moments, in a sombre reverie.

"Once," he said, "when I was young, I loved a woman--a quadroon
girl. That was in New Orleans; it is a custom we have there. They
have a world of their own, and we take care of them, and of the
children; and every one knows about it. I was very young, only about
eighteen; and she was even younger. But I found out then what women
are, and what love means to them. I saw how they could suffer. And
then she died in childbirth--the child died, too."

Montague's voice was very low; and Mrs. Winnie sat with her hands
clasped, and her eyes riveted upon his face. "I saw her die," he
said. "And that was all. I have never forgotten it. I made up my
mind then that I had done wrong; and that never again while I lived
would I offer my love to a woman, unless I could devote all my life
to her. So you see, I am afraid of love. I do not wish to suffer so
much, or to make others suffer. And when anyone speaks to me as you
did, it brings it all back to me--it makes me shrink up and wither."

He paused, and the other caught her breath.

"Understand me," she said, her voice trembling. "I would not ask any
pledges of you. I would pay whatever price there was to pay--I am
not afraid to suffer."

"I do not wish you to suffer," he said. "I do not wish to take
advantage of any woman."

"But I have nothing in the world that I value!" she cried. "I would
go away--I would give up everything, to be with a man like you. I
have no ties--no duties--"

He interrupted her. "You have your husband--" he said.

And she cried out in sudden fury--"My husband!"

"Has no one ever told you about my husband?" she asked, after a
pause.

"No one," he said.

"Well, ask them!" she exclaimed. "Meantime, take my word for it--I
owe nothing to my husband."

Montague sat staring into the fire. "But consider my own case," he
said. "_I_ have duties--my mother and my cousin--"

"Oh, don't say any more!" cried the woman, with a break in her
voice. "Say that you don't love me--that is all there is to say!
And you will never respect me again! I have been a fool--I have
ruined everything! I have flung away your friendship, that I might
have kept!"

"No," he said.

But she rushed on, vehemently--"At least, I have been honest--give
me credit for that! That is how all my troubles come--I say what is
in my mind, and I pay the price for my blunders. It is not as if I
were cold and calculating--so don't despise me altogether."

"I couldn't despise you," said Montague. "I am simply pained,
because I have made you unhappy. And I did not mean to."

Mrs. Winnie sat staring ahead of her in a sombre reverie. "Don't
think any more about it," she said, bitterly. "I will get over it. I
am not worth troubling about. Don't you suppose I know how you feel
about this world that I live in? And I'm part of it--I beat my
wings, and try to get out, but I can't. I'm in it, and I'll stay in
till I die; I might as well give up. I thought that I could steal a
little joy--you have no idea how hungry I am for a little joy! You
have no idea how lonely I am! And how empty my life is! You talk
about your fear of making me unhappy; it's a grim jest--but I'll
give you permission, if you can! I'll ask nothing--no promises, no
sacrifices! I'll take all the risks, and pay all the penalties!"

She smiled through her tears, a sardonic smile. He was watching her,
and she turned again, and their eyes met; again he saw the blood
mount from her throat to her cheeks. At the same time came the old
stirring of the wild beasts within him. He knew that the less time
he spent in sympathizing with Mrs. Winnie, the better for both of
them.

He had started to rise, and words of farewell were on his lips; when
suddenly there came a knock upon the door.

Mrs. Winnie sprang to her feet. "Who is that?" she cried.

And the door opened, and Mr. Duval entered.

"Good evening," he said pleasantly, and came toward her.

Mrs. Winnie flushed angrily, and stared at him. "Why do you come
here unannounced?" she cried.

"I apologize," he said--"but I found this in my mail--"

And Montague, in the act of rising to greet him, saw that he had the
offensive clipping in his hand. Then he saw Duval give a start, and
realized that the man had not been aware of his presence in the
room.

Duval gazed from Montague to his wife, and noticed for the first
time her tears, and her agitation. "I beg pardon," he said. "I am
evidently trespassing."

"You most certainly are," responded Mrs. Winnie.

He made a move to withdraw; but before he could take a step, she had
brushed past him and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

And Duval stared after her, and then he stared at Montague, and
laughed. "Well! well! well!" he said.

Then, checking his amusement, he added, "Good evening, sir."

"Good evening," said Montague.

He was trembling slightly, and Duval noticed it; he smiled genially.
"This is the sort of material out of which scenes are made," said
he. "But I beg you not to be embarrassed--we won't have any scenes."

Copyright (c) 2007. topbookz.net. All rights reserved.