Grant read the account of her wedding in the city papers a day or two later. It was given the place of prominence among the Christmas Day nuptials. He read it through twice and then tossed the paper to the end of his little office. Grant was housed in a building by himself; a shack twelve by sixteen feet, double boarded and tar-papered. A single square window in the eastern wall commanded a view of the Landson corrals. On the opposite side of the room was his bed; in the centre a huge wood-burning stove; near the window stood a table littered with daily papers and agricultural journals. The floor was of bare boards; a leather trunk, with D. G. in aggressive letters, sat by the head of his bed, and in the corner near the foot was a washstand with basin and pitcher of graniteware. In another corner was a short shelf of well-selected books; clothing hung from nails driven into the two-by-fours which formed the framework of the little building; a rifle was suspended over the door, and lariat and saddle hung from spikes in the wall. Grant sat in an arm chair by the stove, where the bracket lamp on the wall could shed its yellow glare upon his paper.
After throwing the sheet across the room he half turned in his chair, so that the yellow light fell across his face. Fidget, the pup, always alert for action, was on her feet in a moment, eager to lead the way to the door and whatever adventure might lie outside. But Grant did not leave his chair, and, finding all her tail-waving of no avail, she presently settled down again by the stove, her chin on her outstretched paws, her drooping eyes half closed, but a wakeful ear flopping occasionally forward and back. Grant snuggled his foot against her friendly side and fell into reverie....
There was nothing else for it; he must absolutely dismiss Zen—Zen Transley—from his mind. That was not only the course of honor; it was the course of common sense. After all, he had not sought her for his bride. He had not pressed his suit. He had given her to Transley. The thought was rather a pleasant one. It implied some sort of voluntary action upon Grant’s part. He had been magnanimous. Nevertheless, he was cave man enough to know pangs of jealousy which his magnanimity could not suppress.
“If things had been different,” he remarked to himself; “if I had been in a position to offer her decent conditions, I would have followed up the lead. And I would have won.” He turned the incident on the river bank over in his mind, and a faint smile played along his lips. “I would have won. But I couldn’t bring her here.... It’s the first time I ever felt that money could really contribute to happiness. Well—I was happy before I met her; I can be happy still. This little episode....”
He crossed the room and picked up the newspaper he had thrown away; he crumpled it in his hand as he approached the stove. It said the bride was beautiful—the happy couple—the groom, prosperous young contractor—California—three months.... He turned to the table, smoothed out the paper, and studied it again. Of course he had heard the whole thing from the Landsons; they had done Y.D. and his daughter justice. He clipped the article carefully from the sheet and folded it away in a little book on the shelf.
Then he told himself that Zen had been swept from his mind; that if ever they should meet—and he dallied a moment with that possibility—they would shake hands and say some decent, insipid things and part as people who had never met before. Only they would know....
Grant occupied himself with the work of the ranch that winter, spring, and summer. Occasional news of Mrs. Transley filtered through; she was too prominent a character in that countryside to be lost track of in a season. But anything which reached Grant came through accidental channels; he sought no information of her, and turned a deaf ear, almost, to what he heard. Then in the fall came an incident which immediately changed the course of his career.
It came in the form of an important-looking letter with an eastern postmark. It had been delivered with other mail at the house, and Landson himself brought it down. Grant read it and at first stared at it somewhat blankly, as one not taking in its full portent.
“Not bad news, I hope?” said his employer, cloaking his curiosity in commiseration.
“Rather,” Grant admitted, and handed him the letter. Landson read:
“It is our duty to place before you information which must be of a very distressing nature, and which at the same time will have the effect of greatly increasing your responsibilities and opportunities. Unless you have happened to see the brief despatches which have appeared in the Press this letter will doubtless be the first intimation to you that your father and younger brother Roy were the victims of a most regrettable accident while motoring on a brief holiday in the South. The automobile in which they were travelling was struck by a fast train, and both of them received injuries from which they succumbed almost immediately.
“Your father, by his will, left all his property, aside from certain behests to charity, to his son Roy, but Roy had no will, and as he was unmarried, and as there are no other surviving members of the family except yourself, the entire estate, less the behests already referred to, descends to you. We have not yet attempted an appraisal, but you will know that the amount is very considerable indeed. In recent years your father’s business undertakings were remarkably successful, and we think we may conservatively suggest that the amount of the estate will be very much greater than even you may anticipate.
“The brokerage firm which your father founded is, temporarily, without a head. You have had some experience in your father’s office, and as his solicitors for many years, we take the liberty of suggesting that you should immediately assume control of the business. A faithful staff are at present continuing it to the best of their ability, but you will understand that a permanent organization must be effected at as early a date as may be possible.
“Inability to locate you until after somewhat exhaustive inquiries had been made explains the failure to notify you by wire in time to permit of your attending the funeral of your father and brother, which took place in this city on the eighth instant, and was marked by many evidences of respect.
“We beg to tender our very sincere sympathy, and to urge upon you that you so arrange your affairs as to enable you to assume the responsibilities which have, in a sense, been forced upon you, at a very early date. In the meantime we assure you of our earnest attention to your interests.
“Yours sincerely,
“BARRETT, JONES, BARRETT, DEACON & BARRETT.”
“Well, I guess it means you’ve struck oil, and I’ve lost a good foreman,” said Landson, as he returned the letter. “I’m sorry about your loss, Grant, and glad to hear of your good luck, if I may put it that way.”
“No particular good luck that I can see,” Grant protested. “I came west to get away from all that bothering nuisance, and now I’ve got to go back and take it all up again. I feel badly about Dad and the kid; they were decent, only they didn’t understand me.... I suppose I didn’t understand them, either. At any rate they didn’t wish this on me. They had quite other plans.”
“What do you reckon she’s worth?” Landson asked, after waiting as long as his patience would permit.
“Oh, I don’t know. Possibly six or eight millions by this time.”
“Six or eight millions! Jehoshaphat! What will you do with it?”
“Look after it. Mr. Landson, you know that I have never worried about money; if I had I wouldn’t be here. I figure that the more money a man has the greater are his responsibilities and his troubles; worse than that, his wealth excites the jealousy of the public and even the envy of his friends. It builds a barrier around him, shutting out all those things which are really most worth while. It makes him the legitimate prey of the unprincipled. I know all these things, and it is because I know them that I sought happiness out here on the ranges, where perhaps some people are rich and some are poor, but they all think alike and live alike and are part of one community and stand together in a pinch—and out here I have found happiness. Now I’m going back to the other job. I don’t care for the money, but any son-of-a-gun who takes it from me is a better man than I am, and I’ll sit up nights at both ends of the day to beat him at his own game. Now, just as soon as you can line up someone to take charge I’ll have to beat it.”
The news of Grant’s fortune spread rapidly, and many were the congratulations from his old cow puncher friends; congratulations, for the most part, without a suggestion of envy in them. Grant put his affairs in order as quickly as possible, and started for the East with a trunkful of clothes. But even before he started one thought had risen up to haunt him. He crushed it down, but it would insist. If only this had happened a year ago....
Dennison Grant’s mother had died in his infancy, and as soon as Roy was old enough to go to boarding-school his father had given up housekeeping. The club had been his home ever since. Grant reflected on this situation with some satisfaction. He would at least be spared the unpleasantness of discharging a houseful of servants and disposing of the family furniture. As for the club—he had no notion for that. A couple of rooms in some quiet apartment house, where he could cook a meal to his own liking as the fancy took him; that was his picture of something as near domestic happiness as was possible for a single man rather sadly out of his proper environment.
Grant reached his old home city late at night, and after a quiet cigar and a stroll through some of the half-forgotten streets he put up at one of the best hotels. He was deferentially shown to a room about as large as the whole Landson house; soft lights were burning under pink shades; his feet fell noiselessly on the thick carpets. He placed a chair by a window, where he could watch the myriad lights of the city, and tried to appraise the new sphere in which he found himself. It would be a very different game from riding the ranges or roping steers, but it would be a game, nevertheless; a game in which he would have to stand on his own resources even more than in those brave days in the foothills. He relished the notion of the game even while he was indifferent to the prize. He had no clear idea what he eventually should do with his wealth; that was something to think about very carefully in the days and years to come. In the meantime his job was to handle a big business in the way it should be handled. He must first prove his ability to make money before he showed the world how little he valued it.
He turned the water into his bath; there was a smell about the towels, the linen, the soap, that was very grateful to his nostrils....
In the morning he passed by the office of Grant & Son. He did not turn in, but pursued his way to a door where a great brass plate announced the law firm of Barrett, Jones, Barrett, Deacon & Barrett. He smiled at this elaboration of names; it represented three generations of the Barrett family and two sons-in-law. Grant found himself speculating over a name for the Landson ranch; it might have been Landson, Grant, Landson, Murphy, Skinny & Pete....
He entered and inquired for Mr. Barrett, senior.
“Mr. David Barrett, senior, sir; he’s out of the city, sir; he has not yet come in from his summer home in the mountains.”
“Then the next Mr. Barrett?”
“Mr. David Barrett, junior, sir; he also is out of the city.”
“Have you any more Barretts?”
“There’s young Mr. Barrett, but he seldom comes down in the forenoon, sir.”
Grant suppressed a grin. “The Barretts are a somewhat leisurely family, I take it,” he remarked.
“They have been very successful,” said the clerk, with a touch of reserve.
“Apparently; but who does the work?”
“Mr. Jones is in his office. Would you care to send in your card?”
“No, I think I’ll just take it in.” He pressed through a counter-gate and opened a door upon which was emblazoned the name of Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones proved to be a man with thin, iron-grey hair and a stubby, pugnacious moustache. He sat at a desk at the end of a long, narrow room, down both sides of which were rows of cases filled with impressive-looking books. He did not raise his eyes when Grant entered, but continued poring over a file of correspondence.
“What an existence!” Grant commented to himself. “And yet I suppose this man thinks he’s alive.”
Grant remained standing for a moment, but as the lawyer showed no disposition to divide his attention he presently advanced to the desk. Mr. Jones looked up.
“You are Mr. Jones, I believe?”
“I am, but you have the better of me—”
“Only for the moment. You are a lawyer. You will take care of that. I understand the firm of Barrett, Jones, Barrett, Deacon & Barrett have somewhat leisurely methods?”
“Is the firm on trial?” inquired Mr. Jones, sharply.
“In a sense, yes. I also understand that although all the Barretts, and also Mr. Deacon, share in the name plate, Mr. Jones does the work?”
The lawyer laid down his papers. “Who the dickens are you, anyway, and what do you want?”
“That’s better. With undivided attention we shall get there much quicker. I have a certain amount of legal business which requires attention, and in connection with which I am willing to pay what the service is worth. But I’m not going to pay two generations of Barretts which are out of the city, and a third which doesn’t come down in the forenoon. If I have to buy name plates, I’ll buy name plates of my own, and that is what I’ve decided to do. Do you mind saying how much this job here is worth?”
“Of course I do, sir. I don’t understand you at all—”
“Then I’ll make myself understood. I am Dennison Grant. By force of circumstances I find myself—”
The lawyer had risen from his chair. “Oh, Mr. Dennison Grant! I’m so glad—”
Grant ignored the outstretched hand. “I’m exactly the same man who came into your office five minutes ago, and you were too busy to raise your eyes from your papers. It is not me to whom you are now offering courtesy; it’s to my money.”
“I am sure I beg your pardon. I didn’t know—”
“Then you will know in future. If you’ve got a hand on you, stick it out, whether your visitor has any money or not.”
Grant was glaring at the lawyer across the desk, and the pugnacious-looking moustache was beginning to bristle back.
“Did you come in here to read me a lecture, or to get legal advice?” the lawyer returned with some spirit.
“I came in here on business. In the course of that business I find it necessary to tell you where you get off at, and to ask you what you’re going to do about it.”
The lawyer came around from behind his desk. “And I’ll show you,” he said, very curtly. “You’ve been drinking, or you’re out of your head. In either case I’m going to put you out of this room until you are in a different frame of mind.”
“Hop to it!” said Grant, bracing himself. Jones was an oldish man, and he had no intention of hurting him. In a moment they clenched, and before Grant could realize what was happening he was on his back.
He arose quickly, laughing, and sat down in a chair. “Mr. Jones, will you sit down? I want to talk to you.”
“If you will talk business. You were rude to me.”
“Perhaps. For my rudeness I apologize. But I was not untruthful. And I wanted to find something out. I found it.”
“What?”
“Whether you had any sand in you. You have, and considerable muscle, or knack, as well. I’m not saying you could do it again—”
“Well, what is this all about?”
“Simply this. If I am to manage the business of Grant & Son I shall need legal advice of the highest order, and I want it from a man with red blood in him—I should be afraid of any other advice. What is your price? You understand, you leave this firm and think of nothing, professionally, but what I pay you for.”
Mr. Jones had seated himself, and the pugnacious moustache was settling back into a less hostile attitude.
“You are quite serious?”
“Quite. You see, I know nothing about business. It is true I spent some time in my father’s office, but I never had much heart for it. I went west to get away from it. Fate has forced it back upon my hands. Well—I’m not a piker, and I mean to show Fate that I can handle the job. To do so I must have the advice of a man who knows the game. I want a man who can look over a bond issue, or whatever it is, and tell me at a glance whether it’s spavined or wind-broken. I want a man who can sense out the legal badger-holes, and who won’t let me gallop over a cutbank. I want a man who has not only brains to back up his muscle, but who also has muscle to back up his brains. To be quite frank, I didn’t think you were the man. I had no doubt you had the legal ability, or you wouldn’t be guiding the affairs of this five-cylinder firm, but I was afraid you didn’t have the fight in you. I picked a quarrel with you to find out, and you showed me, for which I am much obliged. By the way, how do you do it?”
Before answering Mr. Jones got up, walked around behind his desk, unlocked a drawer and produced a box of cigars.
“That’s a mistake you Westerners make,” he remarked, when they had lighted up. “You think the muscle is all out there, just as some Easterners will admit that the brains are all down here. Both are wrong. Life at a desk calls for an antidote, and two nights a week keep me in form. I wrestled a bit when I was a boy, but I haven’t had a chance to try out my skill in a long while. I rather welcomed the opportunity.”
“I noticed that. Well—what’s she worth?”
Mr. Jones ruminated. “I wouldn’t care to break with the firm,” he said at length. “There are family ties as well as those of business. A year’s leave of absence might be arranged. By that time you would be safe in your saddle. By the way, do you propose to hire all your staff by the same test?”
Grant smiled. “I don’t expect to hire any more staff. I presume there is already a complete organization, doubtless making money for me at this very moment. I will not interfere except when necessary, but I want a man like you to tell me when it is necessary.”
Terms were agreed upon, and Mr. Jones asked only the remainder of the week to clean up important matters on hand. Telegrams were despatched to Mr. David Barrett, senior, and Mr. David Barrett, junior, and Jones in some way managed to convey the delicate information to young Mr. Barrett that a morning appearance on his part would henceforth be essential. Grant decided to fill in the interval with a little fishing expedition. He was determined that he would not so much as call at the office of Grant & Son until Jones could accompany him. “A tenderfoot like me would stampede that bunch in no time,” he warned himself.
When he finally did appear at the office he was received with a deference amounting almost to obeisance. Murdoch, the chief clerk, and manager of the business in all but title, who had known him in the old days when he had been “Mr. Denny,” bore him into the private office which had for so many years been the sacred recess of the senior Grant. Only big men or trusted employees were in the habit of passing those silent green doors.
“Well Murdy, old boy, how goes it?” Grant had said when they met, taking his hand in a husky grip.
“Not so bad, sir; not so bad, considering the shock of the accident, sir. And we are all so glad to see you—we who knew you before, sir.”
“Listen, Murdy,” said Grant. “What’s the idea of all the sirs?”
“Why,” said the somewhat abashed official, “you know you are now the head of the firm, sir.”
“Quite so. Because a chauffeur neglected to look over his shoulder I am converted from a cow puncher to a sir. Well, go easy on it. If a man has native dignity in him he doesn’t need it piled on from outside.”
“Very true, sir. I hope you will be comfortable here. Some memorable matters have been transacted within these walls, sir. Let me take your hat and cane.”
“Cane? What cane?”
“Your stick, sir; didn’t you have a stick?”
“What for? Have you rattlers here? Oh, I see—more dignity. No, I don’t carry a stick. Perhaps when I’m old—”
“You’ll have to try and accommodate yourself to our manners,” said Jones, when Murdoch had left the room. “They may seem unnecessary, or even absurd, but they are sanctioned by custom, and, you know, civilization is built on custom. The poet speaks of a freedom which ‘slowly broadens down from precedent to precedent.’ Precedent is custom. Never defy custom, or you will find her your master. Humor her, and she will be your slave. Now I think I shall leave, while you try and tune yourself to the atmosphere of these surroundings. I need hardly warn you that the furniture is—quite valuable.”
Grant saw him out with a friendly grip on his arm. “You will need another course of wrestling lessons presently,” he warned him.
So this was the room which had been the inner shrine of the firm of Grant & Son. The quarters were new since he had left the East; the furnishings revealed that large simplicity which is elegance and wealth. A painting of the elder Grant hung from the wall; Dennison stood before it, looking into the sad, capable, grey eyes. What had life brought to his father that was worth the price those eyes reflected? Dennison found his own eyes moistening with memories now strangely poignant....
“Environment,” the young man murmured, as he turned from the portrait, “environment, master of everything! And yet—”
A photograph of Roy stood on the mantelpiece, and beside it, in a little silver frame, was one of his mother.... Grant pulled himself together and fell to an examination of the papers in his father’s desk.
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