The Silent Battle

Coleman Van Duyn appeared and claimed the next dance, which he begged that she would sit out. Jane agreed because it would give her a chance to think. There was little real exertion required in talking to Coley.

What could Nina want to tell her? And where—did she say? In the loggia of the tennis court—at twelve. It must be almost that now.

At five minutes of twelve Nellie Pennington handed Gallatin a note.

“From Nina,” she whispered. “It’s really outrageous, Phil, the way you’re flirting with that trusting child. I’m sure you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

The tennis court was at the far end of the long house. It was reached by passing first a succession of rooms which made up the main building, into the conservatory, by the swimming-pool and loggia. The loggia was a red-tiled portico, enclosed in glass during the winter, in the center of which was a fountain surrounded by a circular marble bench, all filched from an old Etruscan villa. To-night it was unlighted except by the glow from the bronze Japanese lamps in the conservatory; an ideal spot for a tryst, so far removed from the main body of the house and so cool in winter that it was seldom used except as a promenade or as a haven by those purposely belated. Gallatin, the scrap of paper in his fingers, strolled through the deserted halls, smoking thoughtfully. Nina Jaffray was beginning to grate just a little on his nerves. He had no idea what she wanted of him and he didn’t much care.

He only knew that it was almost time for him to make his meaning clear to her in terms which might not be misunderstood. As he entered the obscurity of the loggia, he saw the head and shoulders of a figure in white above the back of the stone bench.

“You wanted to see me?” he said.

At the sound of his voice, the figure rose, stood poised breathless, and he saw that it was not Nina.

“I?” Jane’s voice answered.

He stopped and the cigarette slipped from his fingers.

“I—I beg pardon. I was told that–”

“That I wanted to see you?” she broke in scornfully.

“No. Not you—” he replied, still puzzled.

“There has been a mistake, Mr. Gallatin. I do not want to see you. If you’ll excuse me–”

She made a movement to go, but Gallatin stood in the aperture, the only avenue of escape, and did not move. His hands were at his sides, his head bent forward, his eyes gazing into the pool.

“Wait—” he muttered, as though to himself. “Don’t go yet. I’ve something to say—just a word—it will not take a moment. Will you listen?”

“I suppose I—I must,” she stammered.

“I hear—” he began painfully, “that it’s true that you’re going to marry Mr. Van Duyn.”

“And what if it is?” she flashed at him.

“Nothing—except that I hope you’ll be happy. I wish you–”

“Thanks,” dryly. “When I’m ready for the good wishes—of—of anybody, I’ll ask for them. At present—will you let me pass, please?”

“Yes—in a moment. I thought perhaps you might be willing to tell me whether it’s true, the report of your engagement?”

“I can’t see how that can be any interest of yours.”

“Only the interest of one you once cared for and who–”

“Mr. Gallatin, I forbid it,” she said hurriedly. “Would you be so unmanly as to take advantage of your position here? Isn’t it enough that I no longer care to know you, that I prefer to choose my own friends?”

“Will you answer my question?” he repeated doggedly.

“No. You have no right to question me.”

“I’m assuming the right. Your memory of the past–”

“There is no past. It was the dream of a silly child in another world where men were honest and women clean. I’ve grown older, Mr. Gallatin.”

“Yes, but not in mercy, not in compassion, not in charity.”

“Speak of virtue before you speak of mercy, of pride before compassion, of decency before charity—if you can,” she added contemptuously.

“You’re cruel,” he muttered, “horribly so.”

“I’m wiser than I was. The world has done me that service. And if cruelty is the price of wisdom, I’ll pay it. Baseness, meanness, improbity in business or in morals no longer surprise me. They’re woven into the tissue of life. I can abominate the conditions that cause them, but they are the world. And, until I choose to live alone, I must accept them even if I despise the men and women who practice them, Mr. Gallatin.”

“And you call this wisdom? This disbelief in everything—in everybody, this threadbare creed of the jaded women of the world?”

“Call it what you like. Neither your opinions nor your principles (or the lack of them) mean anything to me. If I had known you were here I should not have come to-night. I pray that we may never meet again.”

He stood silent a long moment, searching her face with his eyes. She was so cold, so white and wraithlike, and her voice was so strange, so impersonal, that he was almost ready to believe that she was some one else. It was the voice of a woman without a soul—a calm, ruthless voice which sought to wound, to injure or destroy. It had been on his lips to speak of the past, to translate into the words the pain at his heart. He had been ready to take one step forward, to seize her in his arms and compel her by the might of his tenderness to return the love that he bore her. If he had done so then, perhaps fortune would have favored him—have favored them both; for in the hour of their greatest intolerance women are sometimes most vulnerable. But he could not. Her words chilled him to insensibility, scourged his pride and made him dumb and unyielding.

“If that is your wish,” he said quietly, “I will do my best to respect it. I’d like you to remember one thing, though, and that is that this meeting was not of my seeking. If I’ve detained you, it was with the hope that perhaps you might be willing to listen to the truth, to learn what a dreadful mistake you have made, of the horrible wrong you have done–”

“To you?”

“No,” sternly. “To Nina Jaffray. Think what you like of me,” he went on with sudden passion. “It doesn’t matter. You can’t make a new pain sharper than the old one. But you’ve got to do justice to her.”

“What is the use, Mr. Gallatin?”

“It’s a lie that they’ve told, a cruel lie, as you’ll learn some day when it will be too late to repair the wrong you’ve done.”

“I don’t believe that it was a lie, Mr. Gallatin. A lie will not persist against odds. This does. You’ve done your duty. Now please let me go.”

“Not yet. You needn’t be afraid of me.”

“Let me pass.”

“In a moment—when you listen. You must. Nina Jaffray is blameless. She would not deny such a story. It would demean her to deny it as it demeans me.”

“It does demean you,” she broke in pitilessly, “as other things have demeaned you. Shame, Mr. Gallatin! Do you think I could believe the word of a man who seeks revenge for a woman’s indifference? Who finding her invulnerable goes to the ends of his resources to attack the members of her family? Trying by methods known only to himself and those of his kind to hinder the success of those more diligent than himself, to smirch the good name of an honest man, to obtain money–”

“Stop,” cried Gallatin hoarsely, and in spite of herself she obeyed. For he was leaning forward toward her, the long fingers of one hand trembling before him.

“You’ve gone almost too far, Miss Loring,” he whispered. “You are talking about things of which you know nothing. I will not speak of that, nor shall you, for whatever our relations have been or are now, nothing in them justifies that insult. Time will prove the right or the wrong of the matter between Henry K. Loring and me as time will prove the right and the wrong to his daughter. I ask nothing of her now, nor ever shall, not even a thought. The girl I am thinking of was gentle, kind, sincere. She looked with the eyes of compassion, the far-seeing gaze of innocence unclouded by bitterness or doubt. I gave her all that was best in me, all that was honest, all that was true, and in return she gave me courage, purpose, resolution. I loved her for herself, because she was herself, but more for the things she represented—purity, nobility, strength which I drew from her like an inspiration. It was to her that I owed the will to conquer myself, the purpose to win back my self-respect. I thanked God for her then and I’m thankful now, but I’m more thankful that I’m no longer dependent on her.”

Jane had sunk on the bench again, her head bent and a sound came from her lips. But he did not hear it.

“I do not need her now,” he went on quietly. “What she was is only a memory; what she is, only a regret. I shall live without her. I shall live without any woman, for no woman could ever be to me what that memory is. I love it passionately, reverently, madly, tenderly, and will be true to it, as I have always been. And, if ever the moment comes when the woman that girl has grown to be looks into the past, let her remember that love knows not doubt or bitterness, that it lives upon itself, is sufficient unto itself and that, whatever happens, is faithful until death.”

He stopped and stepped aside.

“I have finished, Miss Loring. Now go!”

The peremptory note startled her and she straightened and slowly rose. His head was bowed but his finger pointed toward the door of the conservatory. As she passed him she hesitated as though about to speak, and then slowly raising her head walked past him and disappeared.

XXVI

BIG BUSINESS

Tooker fidgeted uneasily with the papers on the junior partner’s desk, moving to the safe in the main office and back again, bringing bundles of documents which he disposed in an orderly row where Mr. Gallatin could put his hands on them. Eleven o’clock was the hour set for the conference between Henry K. Loring and Philip Gallatin. Mr. Leuppold had written last week that Mr. Loring had agreed to a conference and asked Mr. Gallatin to come to his, Mr. Leuppold’s, private office at a given time. Gallatin had agreed to the day and hour named, but politely insisted that Mr. Leuppold and Mr. Loring come to his office. It would have made no difference in the result, of course, but Gallatin had reasons of his own.

At ten o’clock Philip Gallatin came in and read his mail. He had returned yesterday from his southern visit, and in the afternoon had gone over, with Mr. Kenyon and Mr. Hood, the details of the case. The matter had been discussed freely, but it was clear to Tooker, who had been present, that the other partners had been able to add nothing but their approval to the work which Gallatin had done.

His mail finished, Gallatin took up the other papers on his desk and scrutinized them carefully, after which he glanced at his watch and pressed the button for the chief clerk.

“There has been no message from Mr. Leuppold, Tooker?” he asked.

“Nothing.”

Gallatin smiled. “That’s good. I was figuring on a slight chance that they might want more time, and ask a postponement.”

“I had thought of that.”

“It wouldn’t help them. I guess they’ve found that out.”

“I hope so. But I shouldn’t take any chances.”

“No, I won’t,” he returned grimly. And then, “Mr. Markham is here, isn’t he?”

“Yes. He came early. I’ve shown him into Mr. Kenyon’s office as you directed.”

“Very good, Tooker. And I will want you, so please don’t go out.”

“I’m not going out this morning, Mr. Gallatin,” said Tooker, with a grin.

After the chief clerk had disappeared Gallatin walked to the window where he stood for a long while with his hands behind his back, looking out toward the Jersey shore. His thoughts were not pleasant ones. The words of Jane’s recrimination were still ringing in his ears. It was Henry Loring, of course, who had put all that into her head, but he blamed her for the readiness with which she had been willing to condemn him from the first, the facility with which she had been able to turn from him to another.

His idyl had passed.

He turned into the room, brows lowering and jaws set, and went to his desk again. There, at a few moments past eleven, Tooker brought in word that Mr. Leuppold and Mr. Loring were waiting to see him.

“Tell them to wait in the outer office, Tooker,” he said with a gleam in his eye, “that I will be at liberty in a few moments. I’ll ring for you.”

When Tooker had gone, Gallatin sat down again, glanced at his watch, then took up the morning paper, which he had not yet opened, and read, smiling. It amused him to think of Henry K. Loring sitting in the outer office, wasting time worth a hundred dollars a minute. It amused him so much that he dropped the paper, put his feet up on his desk, and lit a cigarette, to enjoy the situation more thoroughly. Leuppold, too, his suavity slowly yielding to his impatience, would be twisting his watch-fob by now or tapping his fat fingers on his legs, while he waited, his ease of mind little improved by the delay.

Gallatin’s smile diminished with his cigarette, and at last he looked at his watch and put his feet on the floor and rang for the chief clerk.

“You may show those gentlemen in, Tooker,” he said quietly.

Tooker glanced at the ashes of the cigarette, picked up the newspaper and put it on a chair in the corner, then laid one or two documents obtrusively open, on Mr. Gallatin’s desk. Phil watched him with a smile. Tooker was a thoughtful and cautious soul.

But he was reading the nearest document intently when Loring and Leuppold entered. He turned in his chair—rose and bowed.

“You’ve met Mr. Loring, Mr. Gallatin?” said Leuppold.

Loring dropped his chin abruptly the fraction of an inch, peering keenly about, his lips drawn in a thin and unpleasant smile. Phil Gallatin indicated a chair at one end of the table, into which Loring stiffly sat, with one arm on the table, his bull-neck thrust forward, peering steadily at the younger man, watching every movement, studying his face as though trying by the intentness of his gaze to solve the question as to whether this curiously inconsistent young man was a menace or merely a nuisance.

Gallatin laid some papers upon the table, took some others from Tooker and moved his desk chair to the table. If he felt Loring’s scrutiny, his calm demeanor gave no sign of it, for after a few commonplaces he began addressing his remarks directly to Mr. Leuppold’s client.

“I don’t propose to take up a great deal of your time, gentlemen,” he began, “and I think I can state my position in a very few moments.” He took out his watch and looked at it. “About twenty minutes, I think. The facts, as you both know, are these: John Sanborn, representing the minority stockholders of the Sanborn Mining Company, filed an injunction against the President and Board of Directors of the Sanborn Mining Company to prevent the sale of its properties and interests to the Pequot Coal Company. This injunction was lost in the Supreme Court and was appealed to the Appellate Court, when the case came into my hands. That appeal is pending. That is a correct statement, is it not?”

“It is,” said Leuppold blandly, while Loring nodded his head.

“The sale has, therefore, not been consummated and cannot be consummated until the higher court has affirmed the decision of the lower one or reversed it.”

“That is also true, Mr. Gallatin,” said Leuppold. “Proceed, sir.”

Gallatin hesitated, his brows drew together and his voice took a deeper note.

“This case, Mr. Leuppold, is one which involves not only large issues but large principles. The Sanborn Mining Company owns the most valuable coal properties, with the possible exception of those owned by the Pequot Coal Company, in the State of Pennsylvania, and until 1909 was doing an enormous business with the trade centers of the East, working at full capacity and employing an army of men in getting its coal to market. Its only rival in production was the Pequot Coal Company, of which Mr. Loring, as he has admitted, controls the majority of the stock.

“In the summer of 1909, conditions changed. The Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company found it impossible to furnish cars to the Sanborn mines. I have copies of the correspondence, relating to the matter: repeated letters of request on the part of the Sanborn Company and excuses on the part of the railroad company, as well as frequent promises which were never fulfilled.”

“What has that to do with the pending suit?” asked Leuppold carelessly, with an effective shrug of his shoulder.

“I’m coming to that, Mr. Leuppold. And I ask for your patience,” said Gallatin. “This failure of the railroad company to provide facilities for the shipment of the coal of the Sanborn Mines,” he continued, “is all the more remarkable when it is known that while this very correspondence was going on, its sidings between Phillipsville and Williamstown were full of empty cars, and when it is also known that the Pequot Coal Company was working on full time and shipping to New York City, alone, one hundred and fifty cars of coal a day.”

“We had contracts with the railroad,” snapped Loring. “We forced them to provide for us.”

“So had the Sanborn Company contracts, Mr. Loring,” said Gallatin.

“Really!” sneered Loring.

Tooker quickly abstracted a paper from a sheaf and handed it to Gallatin.

“Read for yourself.”

The sneer on Loring’s lips faded, and his eyes opened wider as he read. It was not a copy, but the contract itself.

“I have also a volume of evidence about the empty cars which verifies my statement. Would you care to look over it?”

“No. Go on,” growled Loring.

“Gentlemen,” Gallatin went on, enunciating his words with great distinctness. “This was discrimination—of a kind which at this time is not popular with the Government of the United States.”

“But if you’ll permit me, Mr. Gallatin,” Leuppold’s suave voice broke in, “what has this to do with the Sanborn injunction suit? And how can my client be held in any way responsible for the action of the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company for its failure to fulfill its contracts to the Sanborn Company?”

Gallatin raised a protesting hand.

“I’m coming to that, Mr. Leuppold. In a moment, sir. The conditions I have already mentioned have forced the Sanborn Company practically to shut down. Coal is being mined and a few cars a day are shipped, but, as you gentlemen are well aware, dividends have been passed for two years and the value of the stock has depreciated. This much for the conditions which have caused that depreciation. The Pequot Coal Company, taking advantage of the low market value of the shares, has made an offer for the property—an offer, gentlemen, which as you both know, represents not one-twentieth of the Sanborn Company’s holdings.”

“I can’t agree with that,” put in Leuppold quickly. “It was a fair offer, accepted by the Board of Directors of the Sanborn Company, Mr. Sanborn alone dissenting.”

Gallatin arose and picked up a package wrapped in rubber bands.

“I’m ready to talk about that Board of Directors now, Mr. Leuppold,” he said quietly, with his eyes on Loring’s face, “and I’m also ready to talk about the Board of Directors of the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company.”

Henry K. Loring’s expression was immovable, but Mr. Leuppold’s fingers were already at his watch-fob.

“I’m going to lay my hand on the table, gentlemen,” Gallatin went on with a quiet laugh. “I’m going to show you all my cards and let them play themselves. I’m going to prove to you so clearly that you can’t doubt the accuracy of my information or the character of my evidence that I am aware that Henry K. Loring has at the present time not only the control of the stock of the Sanborn Mining Company, but that he also controls a voting majority of the stock of the Lehigh and Pottsville Railroad Company.”

Leuppold laughed outright.

“Absurd, sir. Your statement is flattering to my client, but I beg that you will confine your remarks to the bounds of reason.”

“I will to the bounds of reason, to the bounds of fact. It’s no laughing matter, Mr. Leuppold, as you’ll discover presently. I will not speak of Mr. Loring’s connection with the railroad for a moment. Perhaps, since this conference has been called with especial reference to the injunction suit, the proof of Mr. Loring’s majority stock ownership in the Sanborn Company will be sufficient.”

“You can’t prove it without manufactured evidence.”

Gallatin flushed. “Call it what you like, it’s here—in my possession. The majority stock of the Sanborn Mining Company is now owned by Henry K. Loring, and has been voted under cover for the benefit of the Pequot Coal Company.”

“That’s a grave charge, Mr. Gallatin.”

“So grave that I thought it fairer to Mr. Loring to have him learn what I know, before bringing the matter into court.”

“You have proved nothing yet.”

Gallatin opened some papers and laid them on the table.

“I have here an affidavit of a former employee of Mr. Loring which I propose to offer in evidence.”

“Who?” growled Loring.

“One moment, please. I have also an abstract from the books of the company with entries showing the purchase of stock, the amounts, the price and the dates of payment.”

Leuppold leaned forward in his chair.

“Even you must know, Mr. Gallatin, that that’s not evidence.”

“I’m well aware of that, but when the time comes, Mr. Leuppold, I intend to call for the production of the original books.”

Leuppold raised a protesting hand and then said craftily:

“Those books are lost, Mr. Gallatin.”

Gallatin only smiled at him.

“Thanks for that information, Mr. Leuppold. For that being the case, even you will admit that my copy is admissible in secondary evidence.”

Loring’s quick glance caught Leuppold’s. The point was well taken. Leuppold covered his confusion with a magnificent gesture and a resumption of his blandest manner.

“How are you going to prove that these are copies from the books?” he asked easily.

“I will produce that evidence at the proper time.”

“Produce it now–”

“I will, if necessary.”

“That is the weakness of your case, Mr. Gallatin; you can’t produce it,” he sneered.

Gallatin turned to the chief clerk and said: “The checks, Tooker.”

Gallatin removed some slips of paper from the envelope Tooker handed him, and held them carelessly in his fingers, so that the two men, who were eying them eagerly, could see the name of the bank and the signature at the lower right hand corner.

“Perhaps Mr. Loring will deny his own signature?” he asked quietly. “These checks I hold are signed with Mr. Loring’s name, a signature with which we are all familiar, and were given to Mr. Loring’s brokers for the purchase of Sanborn stock. I may add that the date of entry on the books of the company in each case corresponds with the date on the checks, as does the amount.”

He stepped to Loring’s side and held several of the checks up just beyond his reach.

“That’s not my signature,” said Loring.

Gallatin handed the checks to Tooker.

“You’re not convinced?”

“No. It’s a forgery.”

“Then I’ll find other means of convincing you. Perhaps, if I produced a man who saw you sign those checks–”

Loring had risen to his feet and spoke but one word. It was the popular one for the infernal regions.

Gallatin smiled. And then to the chief clerk, “Tooker, show Mr. Markham in, please.”

The situation had gotten beyond the control of Mr. Leuppold, who was completely nonplused by Mr. Gallatin’s rapidity, succinctness and damnable accuracy; but he made one desperate effort to regain his lost ground.

“Markham, a broken man, a drunkard, a gambler–”

“But once Mr. Loring’s secretary,” Gallatin broke in significantly. “Wait, Mr. Leuppold.”

In a moment Mr. Markham entered. He was a tall man, with keen eyes, hawklike nose and a weak mouth. As he entered Loring turned toward the door and the eyes of the two men met, Loring’s curious, the newcomer’s eager and unflinching.

“Mr. Markham,” asked Gallatin, “do you know this gentleman?”

“Yes. He is Henry K. Loring.”

“Have you ever seen these checks?”

“Yes. I drew them and saw Mr. Loring sign them.”

“And this affidavit?”

“I wrote it.”

“And this abstract of the books of the Sanborn Company?”

“I have seen it.”

“Is it correct?”

“In every particular.”

“All right. That will be all for the present. Will you remain outside?”

“Wait, sir!” Leuppold’s voice rang out. “I haven’t finished with Mr. Markham yet.”