Making People Happy
For the moment, the husband was moved to a sudden tenderness. He spoke softly, earnestly, leaning toward her.
"Cicily, you can't realize what a pleasure it is to a fellow, when he is pounding away downtown, to stop for a second and think of his wife at home waiting for him – that dear girl who loves him – the darling one far away from all the turmoil of the sordid fight."
The rhapsody, although genuine enough, was not satisfying to the wife. The limit of time to a "second" was unfortunate. There was distinct irony in her tone as she answered with a question:
"And the farther away the home, the greater the pleasure, doubtless?"
For once, Hamilton was susceptible; and he was keenly distressed, momentarily.
"Cicily!" he cried. "You don't doubt my love, do you? Why, when a man and a woman marry, each ought to take the other's love for granted – take it on faith."
But the wife was in no wise consoled by this trite defense. It had been made too familiar to her in previous discussions between them. Her answer was tinged with bitterness:
"That's the only way in which I've had a chance to take it lately," she said slowly, with her eyes downcast.
The persistence of her mood aggravated the man beyond the bounds of that restraint which he had imposed on himself. His nerves were overwrought, and, under the impulse of irritation over another worry at home added to those by which he was already overburdened, he flared.
"Cicily!" he exclaimed, sharply. "What in the world has come over you? You don't want to hold me back, do you? You don't want to be that sort of a wife?"
"Charles!" Cicily exclaimed, in her turn sharply. She was grievously hurt by this rebuke from the man whom she loved.
"Forgive me!" Hamilton begged, swiftly contrite. "I'm just nervous – tired. It's been a fearfully hard day downtown."
His obvious sincerity won instant forgiveness. Cicily rose from her chair, and came to seat herself on the arm of his. He took one of her hands in his, and her free hand stroked his hair in a familiar caress. When she spoke, it was with a tenderness that was half-humility.
"Would it help, dear, to talk to me? We used always to talk over things, you know. Don't you remember? You said ever so many times that I had so much common sense!"
Again, Hamilton spoke with a tactlessness that was fairly appalling:
"Oh, yes, I remember very well. That was before we were married."
"Yes – before!" There was scorn in the emphasis of the repetition. It aroused the husband to knowledge of his blunder.
"I – didn't mean to – " he stammered. "I – I – of course, you understand – Really, dearest, I'm sorry I've been so occupied lately. I hope things will brighten up soon; then, I shall be more sociable. I've thought about our anniversary, too. It's too bad I was tied up that night!"
Cicily rose from her position on the arm of her husband's chair, and strolled across the room.
"Oh, that's all right," she remarked, in an indifferent tone of voice. "Of course, business must come first." Her beautiful face was very somber now; her eyes were turned away from the man.
But Hamilton was amply content. His absorption in other things rendered him somewhat unobservant of certain niceties in expression just now. He sprang up, and went to his wife. With his hands on her shoulders, he declared his satisfaction with the situation as it appeared to him at this time:
"That's my real Cicily – my little girl!.. Now, another anniversary – "
"Oh, yes," the wife agreed, "as I reminded you before, there will be plenty of other anniversaries – lots more – so many more!" The melancholy note in her voice escaped the listener, as she had known that it would. His answer was enthusiastic:
"Yes, indeed! Both of our families are long-lived. Do you remember, when we got engaged, how you said it was so awfully serious, because all the women in your family lived to be seventy or more?"
"Yes, I remember!" Then, abruptly recalling the original motive with which she had sought this conversation, Cicily, by an effort of will that cost her much, spoke with a manner half-gaily sympathetic:
"Charles, why don't you tell me now all about this horrid business of yours?"
At the question, the man's face quickly grew grim, and the frown deepened perceptibly between his brows. He dropped his hands from his wife's shoulders, turned away, and went back to reseat himself in the chair by the broad table, on which was spread out the bundle of business papers. He did not look up toward the woman, who followed him with something of timidity, and took her position anew in the chair facing him. He had no eyes for the pleading anxiety in the gaze that was fixed on him. His mood was once more heavy under the weight of business worry.
"Oh, what's the use of telling you!" he snapped, brutally; but that he had meant nothing personal in the question was shown at once, for he added, in the same sentence: " – or anybody else?"
Cicily had whitened a little at the opening phrase, but her color crept back, as she heard the end of the impatient question. After a little, she ventured to repeat her request for some information as to the status of affairs in the factory.
"Why, as to that," Hamilton replied, in a tone of discomfort, "the facts are simple enough; but they spell disaster for me, unless I can contrive some way or another out of the mess in which I'm involved by the new moves. You see, Carrington has sold his factory. He's sold out to the trust – that's the root of the whole trouble. So, he and Morton are making a fight against me. They mean to put me down and out. It's good business from their standpoint; but it's ruin for me, if they succeed. They think that I'm only a youngster, and that I sha'n't be able to stand up against their schemes. They are of the opinion that, since Dad is gone, they will have a snap in wiping me off the map. They fancy that I don't know a blessed thing in the world except football." Hamilton paused for a moment, and his jaw shot out a little farther forward; his lips shut tensely for a few seconds. Then, they relaxed again, as he continued his explanation of the situation that confronted him. "They're down in my territory now, plotting to undermine my business in various ways. They have the belief that I am not up to their plans; but I know more than they give me credit for." His voice rose a little, and grew harsher. "Well, I'm not such a fool as they fancy I am, perhaps. I'm going to show 'em! I'm in this game, and I'm going to fight, and to fight hard. I'm not going to let 'em score. The play won't be over till the whistle blows. I tell you, I'll show 'em!"
As he continued speaking, the wife's expression changed rapidly. By the time he had come to a pause, it was radiant. Indeed, now, for the first time in many dreary weeks, Cicily felt that she was truly a wife in all senses of the word. Here, at last, she was become a helpmeet to her husband. That bête noire business was no longer the thing apart from her. She was made the confidante of her husband's affairs abroad. She was made the recipient of the most vital explanations. She was asked to share his worries, to counsel him. Thus, in her usual impulsiveness, the volatile girl was carried much too far, much beyond the actuality. As Hamilton ceased speaking, she leaned forward eagerly. The rose was deeply red in her checks; the amber eyes were glowing. Her voice was musically shrill, as she cried out, with irrepressible enthusiasm:
"Yes, yes, Charles, we'll show 'em! We'll show 'em!"
For a moment, the man stared at the speaker dumfounded by the unexpected outbreak. Presently, however, the import of her speech began to be made clear to him. "We?" he repeated, doubtfully. "You mean – " He hesitated, then added: "You mean that you – and I – that is, you mean that you – ?"
"Yes, yes," Cicily answered hastily, with no abatement of her excitement and triumph. "Yes, together, we'll show 'em!"
At this explicit declaration, Hamilton burst out laughing.
"You!" he ejaculated, derisively.
"Yes, I," Cicily maintained, stoutly. "Why, I showed Mrs. Carrington the other day. Next, we'll beat her husband. You know, I beat her for the presidency of the club."
"Well, then, stick to your club, my dear," Hamilton counseled, tersely. "I'll attend to the real business for this family." His face was grown somber again.
"That's just like Uncle Jim," Cicily retorted, bitterly disappointed by this disillusionment. "I suppose you want me to be like Aunt Emma."
"She's perfect – certainly!"
Cicily abandoned the struggle for the time being, acknowledging almost complete defeat. There was only a single consoling thought. At least, he had talked with her intimately concerning his affairs. With an abrupt change of manner, she stood up listlessly, and spoke in such a fashion as might become an old-fashioned wife, although her voice was lifeless.
"I'll get your house-coat, dear," she said, simply. "And, then, while you look after your business during the evening, I'll do – my knitting!" Her hands clenched tightly as she went forth from the study, but the master of the house was unobservant when it came to such insignificant details. He was already poring over the documents on the table; but he called out amiably as he heard the door open.
"That's the dear girl!" he said.
CHAPTER V
Two evenings after this memorable interview between husband and wife, Carrington and Morton were closeted with Hamilton in his library. To anyone who had chanced to look in on the group, it would have seemed rather an agreeable trio of friends passing a sociable evening of elegant leisure. Hamilton alone, as he sat in the chair before the table, displayed something of his inner feelings by the creases between his brows and the compression of his lips and a slight tensity in his attitude. Morton was stretched gracefully in a chair facing that of his host and prospective victim, while Carrington was close by, so that the two seemed ranked against the one. A close student of types would have had no hesitation in declaring Morton to be much the more intelligent and crafty of the two visitors. He appeared the familiar shrewd, smooth, well-groomed New Yorker, excellently preserved for all his sixty-five years; one who could be at will persuasive and genial, or hard as steel. In his evening dress, he showed to advantage, and his manner toward Hamilton was gently paternal, as that of an old family friend who has chanced in for a pleasant hour with the son of a former intimate. Carrington, on the contrary, was of the grosser type of successful business man. A frock-coat sufficed him for the evening always. There was about him in every way a heaviness that indicated he could not be a leader, only a follower after the commands of wiser men. But, in such following, he would be of powerful executive ability.
"Do you know," Morton was saying, "it's really a great personal pleasure for me to come here, Hamilton, my boy. It reminds me of the many times when I used to sit here with your father." As he ceased speaking, he smiled benevolently on the young man opposite him.
Hamilton nodded, without much appearance of graciousness. He was more than suspicious as to the sincerity of this man's kindly manner.
"Yes, I know," he said. "You and he had many dealings together, I believe, didn't you, Mr. Morton?"
"Oh, yes, indeed," came the ready answer; "many and many. He was a shrewd trader, was your father. It's a pity he cannot be here to know what a promising young man of business his son has become. He would be proud of you, my boy."
"Thank you, Mr. Morton," Hamilton responded. "For that matter, I myself wish that Dad were here just now to help me."
Again, the visitor smiled, and with a warm expansiveness that was meant to indicate a heart full of generous helpfulness.
"You don't need him, my boy," he declared, unctuously. "You are dealing with an old friend."
Carrington nodded in ponderous corroboration of the statement.
"Of course not, of course not!" he rumbled, in a husky bass voice.
Hamilton let irritation run away with discretion. He spoke with something that was very like a sneer:
"I thought possibly that was just why I might need him."
Morton seemed not to hear the caustic comment. At any rate, he blandly ignored it, as he turned to address Carrington.
"You remember Hamilton, senior, don't you?" he asked.
"Very well!" replied the gentleman of weight. His red face grew almost apoplectic, and the big body writhed in the chair. His tones were surcharged with a bitterness that he tried in vain to conceal. Morton regarded these signs of feeling with an amusement that he had no reluctance in displaying. On the contrary, he laughed aloud in his associate's face.
"Well, yes," he said, still smiling, "I fancy that you ought to remember Hamilton, senior, and remember him very well, too. But, anyhow, by-gones are by-gones. You weren't alone in your misery, Carrington. He beat me, too, several times."
Hamilton smiled now, but wryly.
"So," he suggested whimsically, yet bitterly, "now that he's dead, you two gentlemen have decided to combine in order to beat his son. That's about it, eh?"
Carrington, who was not blessed with a self-control, or an art of hypocrisy equal to that of his ally, emitted a cackling laugh of triumph. But Morton refused to accept the charge. Instead, he spoke with an admirable conviction in his voice, a hint of indignant, pained remonstrance.
"Ridiculous, my dear boy – ridiculous! Just look on me as being In your father's place. No, no, Hamilton, there's room for all of us. There's a reasonable profit for all of us in the business – if only we'll be sensible about it."
"It only remains to decide as to the sensible course, then," Hamilton rejoined, coldly. "I suppose, in this instance, it means that I should decide to follow the course you have outlined for me. Now, I have your offer before me on this paper. Briefly stated, your proposition to me is that you will take all the boxes I am able to deliver to you – that is to say, you agree to keep my factory busy. For this promise on your part, you require two stipulations from me as conditions. The first is that I shall not sell any boxes to the Independent Plug Tobacco Factory; the second is that I shall sell my boxes to you at a regular price of eleven cents each. I believe I have stated the matter accurately. Have I not?"
"You have stated it exactly," Morton assured the questioner. "That is the situation in a nutshell."
"Unfortunately," Hamilton went on, speaking with great precision, "it's quite impossible for me to make any such agreement with you – utterly impossible." He looked his adversary squarely in the eye, and shook his head in emphatic negation.
Carrington merely emitted a bourdon grunt. Morton, however, maintained the argument, undeterred by the finality of Hamilton's manner.
"But, my dear boy," he exclaimed quickly, "we're not asking you to do anything that you haven't done already. Why, you furnished me with one lot at nine cents."
"At a loss, in order to secure custom against competition," was the prompt retort. "It costs exactly eleven cents to turn out those boxes."
Morton persisted in his refusal to admit the justice of the young man's refusal to accept the terms offered.
"But, my dear boy," he continued, "take your last four bids. I mean the bids that you and Carrington made before we bought out Carrington. The first, time, Carrington bid eleven cents; while you bid fourteen. On the second lot Carrington bid thirteen; and you bid nine."
"You illustrate my contention very well," Hamilton interrupted. "At eleven cents a box, Carrington hardly quit even. It was for that reason he bid thirteen on the following lot; while I, because I was bound to get a look in on the business, even at a loss – why, I bid nine cents. The result was that I got the order, and it cost me a loss of just two cents on each and every box to fill it." A contented rumble from the large man emphasized the truth of the statement.
Nothing daunted, Morton resumed his narrative of operations in the box trade.
"On the third lot, Carrington bid eight cents, while you bid eighteen."
Carrington's indignation was too much for reticence.
"Yes, I got that order," he roared, wrathfully. "It was a million box order, too – " The withering look bestowed on the speaker by Morton caused him to break off and to cower as abjectly in his chair as was possible to one of his bulk.
"His success in being the winner in that bout cost him three cents each for the million boxes," Hamilton commented. "Well?"
"Well," Morton said crisply, "for the fourth and biggest order, Carrington bid seventeen, and you bid sixteen."
"Yes, yes!" Carrington spluttered, forgetful of the rebuke just administered to him. "And, on the four lots, Hamilton, you cleaned up a profit, while I lost out – so much that I had to sell control of my plant. And you call that fair competition!"
Morton grinned appreciation. The young man regarded the ponderous figure of Carrington with something approaching stupefaction over the sheer bravado of the question.
"Was that your motive in joining the trust," he demanded ironically: "to get fair competition?"
Again, Morton laughed aloud, in keen enjoyment of the thrust.
"You're your own father's son, Hamilton," he declared, gaily.
Hamilton, however, was not to be cajoled into friendliness by superficial compliment.
"Probably," he said sternly, "I might not have been able to do so well, if you had not been clever enough to let both Carrington and myself each see the figures of the other's secret bid as a great personal favor."
As the words entered Carrington's consciousness, the ungainly form sat erect with a sudden violence of movement that sent the chair sliding back three feet over the polished floor. The red face darkened to a perilous purple, and the narrow, dull eyes flashed fire. He struggled gaspingly for a moment to speak – in vain. Morton's eyes were fixed on the man, and those eyes were very clear and very cold. Carrington met the steady stare, and it sobered his wrath in a measure, so that presently he was able to utter words intelligibly. But, now, they were not what they would have been a few seconds earlier:
"You – you told him what I bid?"
Hamilton took the answer on himself.
"Surely, he did, Carrington." The young man spoke with cheerfulness, in the presence of the discomfiture of his enemy. "He told you what I bid; and, in just the same way, he told me what you bid – every time!"
For a long minute, Morton stared on at his underling whom he had betrayed. Under that look, the unhappy victim of a superior's wiles, sat uneasily at first, in a vague effort toward defiance; then, his courage oozed away, he shifted uneasily in his seat, and his eyes wandered abashedly about the room. Convinced that the revolt was suppressed, Morton turned again to the young man opposite him.
"All that is done with now." The tone was sharp; the mask of urbanity had fallen from the resolute face, which showed now an expression relentless, dominant. "Hamilton, what are you going to do?" The manner of the question was a challenge.
"I can't make money selling boxes at eleven cents," Hamilton answered wearily. "Nobody could."
"At least, you won't lose any," was the meaning answer. Then, in reply to Hamilton's half-contemptuous shrug, Morton continued frankly. "After all, Hamilton, you can make a profit. It won't be large, but it will be a profit. This is the day of small profits, you must remember. It will be necessary for you to put in a few more of the latest-model machines, and to cut labor a bit. In that way, you will secure a profit. You must cut expense to the limit."
The young man regarded Morton with strong dislike.
"What you mean," he said angrily, "is that I must put my factory on a starvation business. Now, I don't want to cut wages. It's a sad fact that the men at present don't get a cent more than they're worth. Besides that, some of them have been working in the factory for father more than thirty years."
"There is no room for such pensioners in these days of small profits," Morton declared, superciliously. "However, it's no business of mine. Remember, though, it's your only chance to keep clear."
"No," Hamilton announced bravely, "I'll not cut the wage-scale. I'll sell to the trade, at thirteen. It's mighty little profit, but it's something."
Morton shook his head.
"The Carrington factory," he said threateningly, "will sell to the trade for ten cents, until – "
" – Until I'm cleaned out!" Hamilton cried, fiercely.
Morton lifted a restraining hand. He was again his most suave self.
"My dear boy," he said gently, "I liked your father, and I esteemed him highly. He was a shrewd trader: he never tried to match pennies against hundred-dollar bills… The moral is obvious, when you consider your factory alone as opposed to certain other interests. So, take my advice. Try cutting. The men would much rather have smaller wages than none at all, I'm sure. Think it over. Let me know by Saturday… The Carrington factory is to issue its price-list on Monday."
Hamilton was worn out by the unequal combat. He hesitated for a little, then spoke moodily:
"Very well. I'll let you know by Saturday."
When, at last, his guests had departed, the wretched young man dropped his head on his arms over the heap of papers, and groaned aloud… He could see no ray of hope – none!
CHAPTER VI
It was a half-hour after the breaking up of the conference when Hamilton at last raised his head from his arms. He looked about him dazedly for a little while, as if endeavoring to put himself in touch once again with the humdrum facts of existence. Then, when his brain cleared from the lethargy imposed by the strain to which it had so recently been subjected, he gave a sudden defiant toss of his head, and muttered wrathfully: "Go broke, or starve your men!" He got out of his chair, and paced to and fro swiftly for a little interval, pondering wildly. But, of a sudden, he reseated himself, drew a pad of paper to him, and began scrawling figures at the full speed of his pencil. And, as he wrote, he was murmuring to himself: "There is a way out – there must be!"
It was while the husband was thus occupied that the door opened softly, without any preliminary knock, and the wife stepped noiselessly into the room. The anxiety that beset her was painfully apparent in her bearing and in the expression of her face. Her form seemed drooping, as if under shrinking apprehension of some blow about to fall. The eyes of amber, usually so deep and radiant, were dulled now, as if by many tears; the rich scarlet of the lips' curves was bent downward mournfully. She stood just within the doorway for a brief space, watching intently the man who was so busy over his scrawled figures. At last, she ventured forward, walking in a laggard, rhythmic step, as do church dignitaries and choir-boys in a processional. By such slow stages, she came to a place opposite her husband. There, she remained, upright, mute, waiting. The magnetism of her presence penetrated to him by subtle degrees… He looked up at her, with no recognition in his eyes.
"They've gone, dear?" She spoke the words very softly, for she understood instinctively something as to the trance in which he was held.
Hamilton's abstraction was dissipated as the familiar music of Cicily's voice beat gently on his ears.
"Yes – oh, yes, they've gone." His voice was colorless. His eyes went out to the array of figures that sprawled recklessly over the sheet before him.
But the young woman was not to be frustrated in her intention by such indifference on his part. She spoke again, at once, a little more loudly:
"Tell me: Did you come out all right?"
Hamilton raised his head with an impatient movement. Evidently, this persistence was a distracting influence – a displeasing. There was harshness in his voice as he replied:
"Did I come out all right? Well, yes – since I came out at all. Oh, yes!" His voice mounted in the scale, under the impulse of a sudden access of rage against his enemies. He spoke with a savage rapidity of utterance: "And I can lick Carrington any day in the week. Why, I've already put him out. It's Morton – that old fox Morton who's got me guessing… What do you think? They even had the nerve to threaten me. Of course, it was in a round-about way; but it was a threat all the same. They threatened to close up the Hamilton factory. Gad! the nerve of it!"