Part 33 (1/2)

”Don't be so easily discouraged, Monroe; I've got ten like that one, on whom I spend my time in reforming.”

”Oh, Lordy!” exclaimed the placid Monroe.

”Yes; it is Lordy sometimes, you would think, if you were here when they are all in.”

”Why, I'd soon be in an asylum,” said Monroe, despairingly.

”Say, Monroe, I've put Eli Jerey in my office,” said Peter, changing the subject.

”He deserves promotion, no doubt; can he be trusted?”

”None more so; that's why I put him there. I'll give him the store when we pull off the next big deal.”

”Will she go through?” asked Monroe.

”She will.”

”How much?”

”One hundred thousand; then I'll quit.”

”And we poor devils will have to take the crumbs,” said the disheartened Monroe.

”Every one is paid according to his services,” said Peter, in reply.

”Get Winthrope out of the way, get the girl, and you'll have yours.”

Monroe departed, feeling better.

CHAPTER XIX.

WHILE THE FATHER WORRIES, MONROE SCHEMES AND CELEBRATES.

”Mr. Winthrope,” said Mr. Jarney, abstractedly, pacing his office floor, with his hands behind his back, and his head bowed in commiseration, ”my daughter is getting no better--no better.”

John made no reply, feeling that no reply should be made at that time, while the father was worrying so; for in that same moment he was moved himself beyond the efficacy of a consoling word. The garish light of the burning incandescents, in that late afternoon, was tantalizing and unbearable. The pictures on the wall stared down like taunting ghosts; the green-hued carpet and the reflect glimmer of the polished furniture seemed to reproach them for any sense of alleviation either might feel.

The busy sound, the clamor, the roar and rumble of the streets was a hideous nightmare dinning in their ears. The heavy pall of smoke that heaved and rolled over the house-tops, infiltrating in its aqueous touch, was a magnet of melancholy.

Mr. Jarney stood by the window and looked out upon the flat-roofed buildings sitting below. He wondered if all the life therein and thereabout was so torn with dread expectation as his own; or whether any of them thought of life at all; or of the past, or of the present, or of the future. All his years he had had no inflictions, no sorrows, no troubles to set his latent sentimentality into ebullition. He had gone through the mill of business always prospering, always successful, always a leader, without a counteractive element to his iron will. He had gone through his wedded period with a love for his wife, his child and his home, that was unsurpa.s.sable, believing that no untoward thing could ever happen to disturb the tranquility of his perfect life. He believed that G.o.d had blessed him in this respect alone, to the exclusion of other men. But now the blasting hand of Fate, he felt, was turned upon him; and he had no peace while his child lay ill near unto death.

Back and forth he walked his office floor, in his anguish, fretfully silent, and deeply feeling for every one who might have a similar burden to bear. Coming to a stop by John's chair, he gazed down at his secretary, with a fixedness that caused John to have pity for his master.

”Mr. Winthrope,” he said, ”if she dies, my grief will be irreconcilable.

The doctors say there is no hope.”

”No hope?” faltered John.

”No hope,” and the father sat down and cried.

Tears of sympathy came into John's eyes. Under the trying situation, he could not control his emotions. The breaking down of that strong man was more than he could stand, and he arose and walked across the room to a window, where he stopped for some time looking out, contending with his own pa.s.sion. Then he returned to his chair, where he stood in an undecided frame of mind as to what to say.