The Face And The Mask - Robert Barr
"Oh, _that_ doesn't matter," answered the fair young lady, with
the divinest of smiles.
"Doesn't it?" said Mr. Crandall. "If you had the pleasure of meeting
Mrs. Crandall I think you would find that it did--very much indeed."
"But we are not mortals; we are spirits."
"Oh, are you? Well, of course that makes a difference," replied Mr.
Crandall much relieved, for he began to fear from the turn the
conversation had taken that he was in the presence of two writers of
modern novels.
"This lady," continued the first speaker, "is the spirit of wealth. If
you choose her you will be a very rich man before you die."
"Oh, ho!" cried Crandall. "Are you sure of that?"
"Quite certain."
"Well, then I won't be long making my choice. I choose her, of course."
"But you don't know who I am. Perhaps when you know, you may wish to
reverse your decision."
"I suppose you are the spirit of power or of fame or something of that
sort. I am not an ambitious person; money is good enough for me."
"No, I am the spirit of health. Think well before you make your choice.
Many have rejected me, and afterwards, have offered all their
possessions fruitlessly, hoping to lure me to them."
"Ah," said Mr. Crandall, with some hesitation. "You are a very pleasant
young person to have around the house. But why cannot I have both of
you? How does _that_ strike you?"
"I am very sorry, but I am not permitted to give you the choice of
both."
"Why is that? Many people are allowed to choose both."
"I know that; still we must follow our instructions."
"Well, if that is the case, without wishing to offend you in the least,
I think I will stand by my first choice. I choose wealth."
As he said this the other lady advanced toward him and smiled somewhat
triumphantly as she held out her hand. Crandall grasped it and the
first spirit sighed. Just as the spirit of wealth seemed about to
speak, there was a shake at the office door, and Mr. John Crandall saw
the spirits fade away. He rubbed his eyes and said to himself: "By
George! I have been asleep. What a remarkably vivid dream that was."
As he yawned and stretched his arms above his head, the impatient
rattle at the door told him that at least was not a part of the dream.
He arose and unlocked the door.
"Hello, Mr. Bullion," he said, as that solid man came in. "You're late,
aren't you."
"Why, for that matter, so are you. You must have been absorbed in your
accounts or you would have heard me sooner. I thought I would have to
shake the place down."
"Well, you know, the policeman sometimes tries the door and I thought
at first it was he. Won't you sit down?"
"Thanks! Don't care if I do. Busy tonight?"
"Just got through."
"Well, how are things going?"
"Oh, slowly as usual. Slowly because we have not facilities enough, but
we've got all the work we can do."
"Does it pay you for what work you do?"
"Certainly. I'm not in this business as a philanthropist, you know."
"No. I didn't suppose you were. Now, see here, Crandall, I think you
have a good thing of it here and one of the enterprises that if
extended would develop into a big business."
"I know it. But what am I to do? I've practically no capital to enlarge
the business, and I don't care to mortgage what I have and pay a high
rate of interest when, just at the critical moment, we might have a
commercial crisis and I would then lose everything."
"Quite right; quite right, and a safe principle. Well, that's what I
came to see you about. I have had my eye on you and this factory for
some time. Now, if you want capital I will furnish it on the condition
that an accountant of mine examines the books and finds everything
promising a fair return for enlarging the business. Of course I take
your word for the state of affairs all right enough, but business is
business, you know, and besides I want to get an expert opinion on how
much enlargement it will stand. I suppose you could manage a
manufactory ten or twenty times larger as easily as you do this one."
"Quite," said Mr. Crandall.
"Then what do you say to my coming round to-morrow at 9 with my man?"
"That would suit me all right."
Mr. John Crandall walked home a very much elated man that night.
* * * * *
"Well, doctor," said the patient in a very weak voice, "what is the
verdict!"
"It is just as I said before. You will have to take a rest. You know I
predicted this breakdown."
"Can't you give me something that will fix me up temporarily? It is
almost imperative that I should stay on just now."
"Of course it is. It has been so for the last five years. You forget
that in that time you have been fixed up temporarily on several
occasions. Now, I will get you 'round so that you can travel in a few
days and then I insist on a sea voyage or a quiet time somewhere on the
continent. You will have to throw off business cares entirely. There
are no ifs or buts about it."
"Look here, doctor. I don't see how I am to leave at this time. I have
been as bad as this a dozen times before. _You_ know that. I'm
just a little fagged out and when I go back to the office I can take
things easier. You see, we have a big South American contract on hand
that I am very anxious about. New business, you know."
"I suppose you could draw your cheque for a pretty large amount, Mr.
Crandall."
"Yes, I can. If money can bridge the thing over, I will arrange it."
"Well, money can't. What I wanted to say was that if, instead of having
a large sum in the bank, you had overdrawn your account about as much
as the bank would stand, would you be surprised if your cheque were not
honored?"
"No, I wouldn't."
"Well, that is your state physically. You've overdrawn your vitality
account. You've got to make a deposit. You must take a vacation."
"Any other time, doctor. I'll go sure, as soon as this contract is off.
Upon my word I will. You needn't shake your head. A vacation just now
would only aggravate the difficulty. I wouldn't have a moment's peace
knowing this South American business might be bungled. I'd worry myself
to death."
* * * * *
The funeral of Mr. Crandall was certainly one of the most splendid
spectacles the city had seen for many a day. The papers all spoke
highly of the qualities of the dead manufacturer, whose growth had been
typical of the growth of the city. The eloquent minister spoke of the
inscrutable ways of Providence in cutting off a man in his prime, and
in the very height of his usefulness.
THE FAILURE OF BRADLEY.
The skater lightly laughs and glides,
Unknowing that beneath the ice
On which he carves his fair device
A stiffened corpse in silence glides.
It glareth upward at his play;
Its cold, blue, rigid fingers steal
Beneath the tracings of his heel.
It floats along and floats away.
--Unknown Poem.
"If I only had the courage," said Bradley, as he looked over the stone
parapet of the embankment at the dark waters of the Thames as they
flashed for a moment under the glitter of the gaslight and then
disappeared in the black night to flash again farther down.
"Very likely I would struggle to get out again the moment I went over,"
he muttered to himself. "But if no help came it would all be done with,
in a minute. Two minutes perhaps. I'll warrant those two minutes would
seem an eternity. I would see a hundred ways of making a living, if I
could only get out again. Why can't I see one now while I _am_ out. My
father committed suicide, why shouldn't I? I suppose it runs in the
family. There seems to come a time when it is the only way out. I
wonder if he hesitated? I'm a coward, that's the trouble."
After a moment's hesitation the man slowly climbed on the top of the
stone wall and then paused again. He looked with a shudder at the
gloomy river.
"I'll do it," he cried aloud, and was about to slide down, when a hand
grasped his arm and a voice said:
"_What_ will you do?"
In the light of the gas-lamp Bradley saw a man whose face seemed
familiar and although he thought rapidly, "Where have I seen that man
before?" he could not place him.
"Nothing," answered Bradley sullenly.
"That's right," was the answer. "I'd do nothing of that kind, if I were
you."
"Of course you wouldn't. You have everything that I haven't--food,
clothes, shelter. Certainly you wouldn't. Why should you?"
"Why should you, if it comes to that?"
"Because ten shillings stands between me and a job. That's why, if you
want to know. There's eight shillings railway fare, a shilling for
something to eat to-night and a shilling for something in the morning.
But I haven't the ten shillings. So that's why."
"If I give you the ten shillings what assurance have I that you will
not go and get drunk on it?"
"None at all. I have not asked you for ten shillings, nor for one. I
have simply answered your question."
"That is true. I will give you a pound if you will take it, and so if
unfortunately you spent half of it in cheering yourself, you will still
have enough left to get that job. What is the job?"
"I am a carpenter."
"You are welcome to the pound."
"I will take it gladly. But, mind you, I am not a beggar. I will take
it if you give me your address, so that I may send it back to you when
I earn it."
By this time Bradley had come down on the pavement. The other man
laughed quietly.
"I cannot agree to that. You are welcome to the money. More if you
like. I merely doubled the sum you mentioned to provide for anything
unseen."
"Unless you let me return it, I will not take the money."
"I have perfect confidence in your honesty. If I had not, I would not
offer the money. I cannot give you my address, or, rather, I will not.
If you will pay the pound to some charity or will give it to someone
who is in need, I am more than satisfied. If you give it to the right
man and tell him to do the same, the pound will do more good than ever
it will in my pocket or in my usual way of spending it."
"But how are you to know I will do that?"
"I am considered rather a good judge of men. I am certain you will do
what you say."
"I'll take the money. I doubt if there is anyone in London to-night who
needs it much worse than I do."
Bradley looked after the disappearing figure of the man who had
befriended him.
"I have seen that man somewhere before," he said to himself. But in
that he was wrong. He hadn't.
* * * * *
Wealth is most unevenly and most unfairly divided. All of us admit
that, but few of us agree about the remedy. Some of the best minds of
the century have wrestled with this question in vain. "The poor ye have
always with you" is as true to-day as it was 1800 years ago. Where so
many are in doubt, it is perhaps a comfort to meet men who have no
uncertainty as to the cause and the remedy. Such a body of men met in a
back room off Soho Square.
"We are waiting for you, Bradley," said the chairman, as the carpenter
took his place and the doors were locked. He looked better than he had
done a year before on the Thames embankment.
"I know I'm late, but I couldn't help it. They are rushing things at
the exhibition grounds. The time is short now, and they are beginning
to be anxious for fear everything will not be ready in time."
"That's it," said one of the small group, "we are slaves and must be
late or early as our so-called masters choose."
"Oh, there is extra pay," said Bradley with a smile, as he took a seat.
"Comrades," said the chairman, rapping on the desk, "we will now
proceed to business. The secret committee has met and made a
resolution. After the lots are drawn it will be my task to inform the
man chosen what the job is. It is desirable that as few as possible,
even among ourselves, should know who the man is, who has drawn the
marked paper. Perhaps it may be my own good fortune to be the chosen
man. One of the papers is marked with a cross. Whoever draws that paper
is to communicate with me at my room within two days. He is to come
alone. It is commanded by the committee that no man is to look at his
paper until he leaves this room and then to examine it in secret. He is
bound by his oath to tell no one at any time whether or not he is the
chosen man."
The papers were put into a hat and each man in the room drew one. The
chairman put his in his pocket, as did the others. The doors were
unlocked and each man went to his home, if he had one.
Next evening Bradley called at the room of the chairman and said:
"There is the marked paper I drew last night."
* * * * *
The exhibition building was gay with bunting and was sonorous with the
sounds of a band of music. The machinery that would not stop for six
months was still motionless, for it was to be started in an hour's time
by His Highness. His Highness and suite had not yet arrived but the
building was crowded by a well-dressed throng of invited guests--the
best in the land as far as fame, title or money was concerned.
Underneath the grand stand where His Highness and the distinguished
guests were to make speeches and where the finger of nobility was to
press the electric button, Bradley walked anxiously about, with the
same haggard look on his face that was there the night he thought of
slipping into the Thames. The place underneath was a wilderness of
beams and braces. Bradley's wooden tool chest stood on the ground
against one of the timbers. The foremen came through and struck a beam
or a brace here and there.
"Everything is all right," he said to Bradley. "There will be no
trouble, even if it was put up in a hurry, and in spite of the strain
that will be on it to-day."
Bradley was not so sure of that, but he said nothing. When the foreman
left him alone, he cautiously opened the lid of his tool chest and
removed the carpenter's apron which covered something in the bottom.
This something was a small box with a clockwork arrangement and a
miniature uplifted hammer that hung like the sword of Damocles over a
little copper cap. He threw the apron over it again, closed the lid of
the chest, leaned against one of the timbers, folded his arms and
waited.
Presently there was a tremendous cheer and the band struck up. "He is
coming," said Bradley to himself, closing his lips tighter.
"Carpenter," cried the policeman putting in his head through the little
wooden door at the foot of the stage, "come here, quick. You can get a
splendid sight of His Highness as he comes up the passage." Bradley
walked to the opening and gazed at the distinguished procession coming
toward him. Suddenly he grasped the arm of the policeman like a vice.
"Who is that man in the robes--at the head of the procession?"
"Don't you know? That is His Highness."
Bradley gasped for breath. He recognized His Highness as the man he had
met on the embankment.
"Thank you," he said to the policeman, who looked at him curiously.
Then he went under the grand stand among the beams and braces and
leaned against one of the timbers with knitted brows.
After a few moments he stepped to his chest, pulled off the apron and
carefully lifted out the machine. With a quick jerk he wrenched off the
little hammer and flung it from him. The machinery inside whirred for a
moment with a soft purr like a clock running down. He opened the box
and shook out into his apron a substance like damp sawdust. He seemed
puzzled for a moment what to do with it. Finally he took it out and
scattered it along the grass-grown slope of a railway cutting. Then he
returned to his tool chest, took out a chisel and grimly felt its edge
with his thumb.
* * * * *
It was admitted on all hands that His Highness never made a better
speech in his life than on the occasion of the opening of that
exhibition. He touched lightly on the country's unexampled prosperity,
of which the marvelous collection within those walls was an indication.
He alluded to the general contentment that reigned among the classes to
whose handiwork was due the splendid examples of human skill there
exhibited. His Highness was thankful that peace and contentment reigned
over the happy land and he hoped they would long continue so to reign.
Then there were a good many light touches of humor in the discourse--
touches that are so pleasing when they come from people in high places.
In fact, the chairman said at the club afterwards (confidentially, of
course) that the man who wrote His Highness's speeches had in that case
quite outdone himself.
* * * * *
The papers had very full accounts of the opening of the exhibition next
morning, and perhaps because these graphic articles occupied so much
space, there was so little room for the announcement about the man who
committed suicide. The papers did not say where the body was found,
except that it was near the exhibition buildings, and His Highness
never knew that he made that excellent speech directly over the body of
a dead man.
RINGAMY'S CONVERT.
Mr. Johnson Ringamy, the author, sat in his library gazing idly out of
the window. The view was very pleasant, and the early morning sun
brought out in strong relief the fresh greenness of the trees that now
had on their early spring suits of foliage. Mr. Ringamy had been a busy
man, but now, if he cared to take life easy, he might do so, for few
books had had the tremendous success of his latest work. Mr. Ringamy
was thinking about this, when the door opened, and a tall,
intellectual-looking young man entered from the study that communicated
with the library. He placed on the table the bunch of letters he had in
his hand, and, drawing up a chair, opened a blank notebook that had,
between the leaves, a lead pencil sharpened at both ends.
"Good morning, Mr. Scriver," said the author, also hitching up his
chair towards the table. He sighed as he did so, for the fair spring
prospect from the library window was much more attractive than the task
of answering an extensive correspondence.
"Is there a large mail this morning, Scriver?"
"A good-sized one, sir. Many of them, however, are notes asking for
your autograph."
"Enclose stamps, do they?"
"Most of them, sir; those that did not, I threw in the waste basket."
"Quite right. And as to the autographs you might write them this
afternoon, if you have time."
"I have already done so, sir. I flatter myself that even your most
intimate friend could not tell my version of your autograph from your
own."
As he said this, the young man shoved towards the author a letter which
he had written, and Mr. Ringamy looked at it critically.
"Very good, Scriver, very good indeed. In fact, if I were put in the
witness-box I am not sure that I would be able to swear that this was
not my signature. What's this you have said in the body of the letter
about sentiment? Not making me write anything sentimental, I hope. Be
careful, my boy, I don't want the newspapers to get hold of anything
that they could turn into ridicule. They are too apt to do that sort of
thing if they get half a chance."
"Oh, I think you will find that all right," said the young man; "still
I thought it best to submit it to you before sending it off. You see
the lady who writes has been getting up a 'Ringamy Club' in Kalamazoo,
and she asks you to give her an autographic sentiment which they will
cherish as the motto of the club. So I wrote the sentence, 'All classes
of labor should have equal compensation.' If that won't do, I can
easily change it.'
"Oh, that will do first rate--first rate."
"Of course it is awful rot, but I thought it would please the feminine
mind."
"Awful _what_ did you say, Mr. Scriver?"
"Well, slush--if that expresses it better. Of course, you don't believe
any such nonsense."
Mr. Johnson Ringamy frowned as he looked at his secretary.
"I don't think I understand you," he said, at last.
"Well, look here, Mr. Ringamy, speaking now, not as a paid servant to
his master, but----"
"Now, Scriver, I won't have any talk like that. There is no master or
servant idea between us. There oughtn't to be between anybody. All men
are free and equal."
"They are in theory, and in my eye, as I might say if I wanted to make
it more expressive."
"Scriver, I cannot congratulate you on your expressive language, if I
may call it so. But we are wandering from the argument. You were going
to say that speaking as----Well, go on."
"I was going to say that, speaking as one reasonably sensible man to
another, without any gammon about it; don't you think it is rank
nonsense to hold that one class of labor should be as well compensated
as another. Honestly now?"
The author sat back in his chair and gazed across the table at his
secretary. Finally, he said:
"My dear Scriver, you can't really mean what you say. You know that I
hold that all classes of labor should have exactly the same
compensation. The miner, the blacksmith, the preacher, the postal
clerk, the author, the publisher, the printer--yes, the man who sweeps
out the office, or who polishes boots, should each share alike, if this
world were what it should be--yes, and what it _will_ be. Why,
Scriver, you surely couldn't have read my book----"
"Read it? why, hang it, I _wrote_ it."
"You wrote it? The deuce you did! I always thought I was the author of
----"
"So you are. But didn't I take it all down in shorthand, and didn't I
whack it out on the type-writer, and didn't I go over the proof sheets
with you. And yet you ask me if I have read it!"
"Oh, yes, quite right, I see what you mean. Well, if you paid as much
attention to the arguments as you did to the mechanical production of
the book, I should think you would not ask if I really meant what I
said."
"Oh, I suppose you meant it all right enough--in a way--in theory,
perhaps, but----"
"My dear sir, allow me to say that a theory which is not practical, is
simply no theory at all. The great success of 'Gazing Upward,' has been
due to the fact that it is an eminently practical work. The
nationalization of everything is not a matter of theory. The ideas
advocated in that book, can be seen at work at any time. Look at the
Army, look at the Post Office."
"Oh, that's all right, looking at things in bulk. Let us come down to
practical details. Detail is the real test of any scheme. Take this
volume, 'Gazing Upward.' Now, may I ask how much this book has netted
you up to date?"
"Oh, I don't know exactly. Somewhere in the neighborhood of L20,000."
"Very well then. Now let us look for a moment at the method by which
that book was produced. You walked up and down this room with your
hands behind your back, and dictated chapter after chapter, and I sat
at this table taking it all down in shorthand. Then you went out and
took the air while I industriously whacked it out on the type-writer."
"I wish you wouldn't say 'whacked,' Scriver. That's twice you've used
it."
"All right:--typographical error--For 'whacked' read 'manipulated.'
Then you looked over the type-written pages, and I erased and wrote in
and finally got out a perfect copy. Now I worked as hard--probably
harder--than you did, yet the success of that book was entirely due to
you, and not to me. Therefore it is quite right that you should get
L20,000 and that I should get two pounds a week. Come now, isn't it?
Speaking as a man of common sense."
"Speaking exactly in that way I say no it is not right. If the world
were properly ruled the compensation of author and secretary would have
been exactly the same."
"Oh, well, if you go so far as that," replied the Secretary, "I have
nothing more to say."
The author laughed, and the two men bent their energies to the
correspondence. When the task was finished, Scriver said:
"I would like to get a couple of days off, Mr. Ringamy. I have some
private business to attend to."
"When could you get back?"
"I'll report to you on Thursday morning."
"Very well, then. Not later than Thursday. I think I'll take a couple
of days off myself."
* * * * *
On Thursday morning Mr. Johnson Ringamy sat in his library looking out
of the window, but the day was not as pleasant as when he last gazed at
the hills, and the woods, and green fields. A wild spring storm lashed
the landscape, and rattled the raindrops against the pane. Mr. Ringamy
waited for some time and then opened the study door and looked in. The
little room was empty. He rang the bell, and the trim servant-girl
appeared.
"Has Mr. Scriver come in yet?"
"No, sir, he haven't."
"Perhaps the rain has kept him."
"Mr. Scriver said that when you come back, sir, there was a letter on
the table as was for you."
"Ah, so there is. Thank you, that will do."
The author opened the letter and read as follows:
"MY DEAR MR. RINGAMY,--Your arguments the other day fully convinced me
that you were right, and I was wrong ("Ah! I thought they would,"
murmured the author). I have therefore taken a step toward putting your
theories into practice. The scheme is an old one in commercial life,
but new in its present application, so much so that I fear it will find
no defenders except yourself, and I trust that now when I am far away
("Dear me, what does this mean!" cried the author) you will show any
doubters that I acted on the principles which will govern the world
when the theories of 'Gazing Upward' are put into practice. For fear
that all might not agree with you at present, I have taken the
precaution of going to that undiscovered country, from whose bourne no
extradition treaty forces the traveler to return--sunny Spain. You said
you could not tell my rendition of your signature from your own.
Neither could the bank cashier. My exact mutation of your signature has
enabled me to withdraw L10,000 from your bank account. Half the
profits, you know. You can send future accumulations, for the book will
continue to sell, to the address of
"ADAM SCRIVER.
_"Poste Restant, Madrid, Spain"_