In Her Own Right. Scott John Reed
ed
In Her Own Right
I
BROKEN
“The expected has happened, I see,” said Macloud, laying aside the paper he had been reading, and raising his hand for a servant.
“I thought it was the unexpected that happens,” Hungerford drawled, languidly. “What do you mean?”
“Royster & Axtell have been thrown into bankruptcy. Liabilities of twenty million, assets problematical.”
“You don’t say!” ejaculated Hungerford, sitting up sharply. “Have they caught any of our friends?”
“All who dealt with them, I reckon.”
“Too bad! Too bad! – Well, they didn’t catch me.”
“Oh, no! you’re not caught!” said Macloud. “Your father was wise enough to put your estate into Government threes, with a trustee who had no power to change the investment.”
“And I’m thankful he did,” Hungerford answered. “It saves me all trouble; I need never look at the stock report, don’t you know; Government bonds are always the same. – I suppose it’s a reflection on my ability, but that is of small consequence. I don’t care what people think, so long as I have the income and no trouble. If I had control of my capital, I might have lost all of it with Royster & Axtell, who knows?”
Macloud shook his head.
“It isn’t likely,” he commented, “you wouldn’t have had it to lose.”
Hungerford’s momentarily vague look suddenly became knowing.
“You mean I would have lost it long ago?” he asked. “Oh, I say, old man, you’re a bit hard on me. I may not have much head for business, but I’m not altogether a fool, don’t you know.”
“Glad to know it,” laughed Macloud, as he arose and sauntered away.
Hungerford drew out his cigarettes and thoughtfully lighted one.
“I wonder – did he mean I am or I am not?” he said. “I wonder. I shall have to ask him some time. – Boy! a Scotch and soda.”
Meanwhile, Macloud passed into the Club-house and, mounting the stairs to the second floor, knocked sharply at a door in the north-west corner of the corridor.
“Come in,” called a voice. – “Who is it? – Oh! it’s you, Macloud. Make yourself at home – I’ll be out in a moment.”
There was the noise of splashing water, accompanied by sundry exclamations and snorts, followed by a period of silence; and, then, from the bath room, emerged Croyden clad in robe, slippers and a smile.
“Help yourself,” he said, pointing to the smoking materials. He filled a pipe, lit it carefully, blew a few whiffs to the ceiling and watched them slowly dissipate.
“Well, it’s come,” he remarked: “Royster & Axtell have smashed clean.”
“Not clean,” said Macloud. “It is going to be the most criminal failure this town has ever known.”
“I mean they have busted wide open – and I’m one of the suckers.”
“You are going to have plenty of company, among your friends,” Macloud answered.
“I suppose so – but I hope none of them is hit quite so bad.” He blew another cloud of smoke and watched it fade. “The truth is, Colin, I’m done for.”
“What!” exclaimed Macloud. “You don’t mean you are cleaned out?”
The other nodded. “That’s about it… I’ve a few thousand left – enough to pay laundry bills, and to board on Hash Alley for a few months a year. Oh! I was a sucker, all right! – I was so easy it makes me ashamed to have saved anything from the wreck. I’ve a notion to go and offer it to them, now.”
There were both bitterness and relief in his tones; bitterness over the loss, relief that the worst, at last, had happened.
For a while, there was silence. Croyden turned away and began to dress; Macloud sat looking out on the lawn in front, where a foursome were playing the home hole, and another waiting until they got off the green.
Presently, the latter spoke.
“How did it happen, old man?” he asked – “that is, if you care to tell.”
Croyden laughed shortly. “It isn’t pleasant to relate how one has been such an addle-pated ass – ”
“Then, forgive me. – I didn’t mean to – ”
“Nonsense! I understand – moreover, it will ease my mortification to confide in one who won’t attempt to sympathize. I don’t care for sympathy, I don’t deserve it, and what’s more, I won’t have it.”
“Don’t let that worry you,” Macloud answered. “You won’t be oppressed by any rush of sympathy. No one is who gets pinched in the stock market. We all go in, and – sooner or later, generally sooner – we all get burnt – and we all think every one but ourselves got only what was due him. No, my boy, there is no sympathy running loose for the lamb who has been shorn. And you don’t need to expect it from your friends of the Heights. They believe only in success. The moment you’re fleeced, they fling you aside. They fatten off the carcasses of others – yours and mine and their own brothers. Friendship does not enter into the game. They will eat your bread and salt to-night, and dance on your financial corpse to-morrow. The only respect they have is for money, and clothes, and show; and the more money, and the more show the greater their deference – while they last – and the farther the fall when they fail. The women are as bad as the men, in a smaller way. They will blacken one another’s reputation with an ease and zest that is simply appalling, and laugh in your face while doing it. I’m speaking generally, there are exceptions, of course, but they only prove the rule. Yet, what can you expect, where aristocracy is based on one’s bank account, and the ability to keep the other fellows from laying violent hands on it. It reminds one of the Robbers of the Rhine! Steal everything within reach and give up nothing. Oh! it is a fine system of living! – Your pardon! I forgot myself.”
“It is good to have you forget yourself occasionally,” said Croyden – “especially, when your views chime with mine – recently acquired, I admit. I began to see it about a month ago, when I slowed down on expenditures. I thought I could notice an answering chill in the grill-room.”
“Like enough. You must spend to get on. They have no use for one who doesn’t. You have committed the unpardonable sin: had a fortune and lost it. And they never forgive – unless you make another fortune; then they will welcome you back, and lay plans to take it, also.”
“You paint a pretty picture!” Croyden laughed.
Macloud shrugged his shoulders.
“Tell me of Royster & Axtell,” he said.
“There isn’t a great deal to tell,” Croyden replied, coming around from the dressing table, and drawing on his vest as he came. “It is five years since my father died and left me sole heir to his estate. In round numbers, it aggregated half a million dollars – all in stocks and bonds, except a little place down on the Eastern Shore which he took, some years before he died, in payment of a debt due him. Since my mother’s demise my father had led the life of quiet and retirement in a small city. I went through college, was given a year abroad, took the law course at Harvard, and settled down to the business of getting a practice. Then the pater died, suddenly. Five hundred thousand was a lot of money in that town. Too much to settle there, I thought. I abandoned the law, and came to Northumberland. The governor had been a non-resident member of the Northumberland Club, which made it easy for me to join. I soon found, however, that what had seemed ample wealth in the old town, did not much more than make ends meet, here – provided I kept up my end. I was about the poorest one in the set I affected, so, naturally, I went into the stock market. Royster was the particular broker of the gang and the first year I did very well. – You think it was intended?” (As Macloud smiled.) “Well, I don’t doubt now you’re right. The next year I began to lose. Then Royster put me into that Company of his down in Virginia – the Virginia Improvement Company, you know. He took me down, in a special car, showed me how much he himself had in it, how much would be got out of it, offered to let me