CHAPTER II
WHAT DAVID FOUND IN MORTON'S CLOSET
David was sitting in Morton's study, looking through the six years'accumulation of letters and documents, saving some, destroying others,when he came upon a dusty snap-shot photograph. Hands and eyes werearrested; Morton sank from his mind. Four persons sat in a littlesailboat; their faces were wrinkled in sun-smiles; about and beyond themwas the broad white blaze of the Sound. The four were Miss Chambers andher mother, Morton and himself.
The day of the photograph ran its course again, hour by hour, in David'smind, and slowly rose other pictures of his acquaintance with HelenChambers: of their first meeting three years before at a dinner at St.Christopher's Mission; of later meetings at St. Christopher's, where shehad a club and where he was a frequent visitor; of the summer passed atSt. Christopher's two years before, during the early part of which he,in Morton's stead, had aided her in selecting furnishings for a summerhouse given by her father for the Mission children; of two weeks at theend of that summer which he and Morton had spent at Myrtle Hill, theChambers's summer home on the Sound. Since then he had seen her atirregular intervals, and their friendship had deepened with eachmeeting.
She had interested his mind as no other woman had ever done. She hadbeen bred in the conventions of her class, the top strata of theAmerican aristocracy of wealth; all her friends, save those she hadgained at the Mission, belonged in this class; and her life had beenlived within her class's boundaries. Given these known quantities, anaverage social algebraist would have quickly figured out the unknownfuture to be, a highly desirable marriage, gowning and hatting,tea-drinking, dining, driving, calling, Europe-going, and the similaractivities by which women of her class reward God for theircreation--and in time, the motherhood of a second generation of herkind.
But there was her character, which by degrees had revealed itself fullyto David: her sympathy, her love of truth, a lack of belief in hersocial superiority, an instinct to look very clearly, very squarely, atthings, a courage unconscious that it was courage, that was merely thenatural action of her direct spirit--all these dissolved in a mostsimple, charming personality. It was these qualities (a stronger reprintof her mother's), in one of her position, that made David think herfuture might possibly be other than that contained in the algebraist'ssolution--that made him regard her as a potential surprise to her world.
And Helen Chambers had interested not only David's mind. In moments whenhis courage had been high and his fancy had run riotously free, he haddared dream wild dreams of her. But now, as he gazed at the photograph,he sighed. In place and fortune she was on the level of the highest; hewas far below--still only a straggler, obscure, barely keeping alive.
Yes--he was still only a struggler. He nodded as his mind repeated thesentence. Now and then his manuscripts were accepted--but only now andthen. His English was admirable; this he had been told often. But therewas a something lacking in almost all he wrote, and this too he had beenoften told. David had tried to write of the big things, the realthings--but of such one cannot write convincingly till he has thoughtdeeply or travelled himself through the deep places. David's troublewas, he did not know life--but no one had told him this. So in hisignorance of the real difficulty, he had thought to conquer hisunsuccess by putting forth a greater effort. He had gone out less andless often; he had sat longer and longer at his writing-table; hisEnglish had become finer and finer. And his people had grown morehypothetical, more unreal. The faster he ran, the farther away was thegoal.
He sighed again. Then his square jaw tightened, his eyes narrowed togrim crescents, his clenched fist lightly pounded the desk; and to aphalanx of imaginary editors he announced with slow defiance:
"Some of these days the whole blamed lot of you will be camping on mydoor-steps. You just wait!"
He was returning to the sifting of the letters when the bell of theapartment rang. He answered the ring himself, as Mrs. Humphrey was outfor the afternoon, and opened the door upon a shabby, wrinkled man witha beery, cunning smile. His manner suggested that he had been therebefore.
"Is Mr. Morton at home?" the man asked.
"No," David answered shortly, not caring to vouchsafe the informationthat Morton was in his grave these two days. "But I represent him."
"Then I guess I'll wait."
"He'll not be back."
The man hesitated, then a dirty hand drew an envelope from a tornpocket. "I was to give it only to him, but I guess it'll be all right toleave it with you."
David closed the door, ripped open the envelope, glanced at the note,turned abruptly and re-entered Morton's study, and read the lines again:
"You paid no attention to the warning I sent you last Friday. This is the last time I write. I must get the money to-day, or--you know!
"L. D."
He was clutched with a vague fear. Who was L. D.? And how could money bethus demanded of Morton? His mind was racing away into wild guesses,when he observed there was no street and number on the note. In the sameinstant it flashed upon him that the note must be investigated, and thatthe address of its writer was walking away in the person of the oldmessenger.
He caught his hat, rushed down the stairs, and came upon the old manjust outside the club-house entrance.
"I want to see the writer of that note," he said. "Give me theaddress."
"Do better'n that. I'll go with you. I'm the janitor there."
David was too agitated to refuse the offer. They walked in silence forseveral paces, then the old man jerked his head toward the club-houseand knowingly winked a watery eye.
"Lucky they don't know where you're goin'," he said. "But I'm safe. Safeas a clam!" He reassured David with his beery smile.
The vague dread increased. "What do you mean?"
"Innocent front! Oh, you're a wise one, I see. But you can trust me. I'msafe."
David was silent for several paces. "Who is this man L. D.?"
"This man?" He cackled. "This man! Oh, you'll do!"
David looked away in disgust; the old satyr made him think of thegarbage of dissipation. All during their fifteen-minute car ride hisindefinite fear changed from one dreadful shape to another. After ashort walk the old man led the way into a small apartment house, and upthe stairs.
He paused before a door. "Here's your 'man,'" he said, nudging David andgiving his dry, throaty little laugh.
"Thanks," said David.
But the guide did not leave. "Ain't you got a dime that's makin' troublefor the rent o' your coin?"
David handed him ten cents. "Safe as a clam," he whispered, and wentdown the stairs with a cackle about "the man."
David hesitated awhile, with high-beating heart, then knocked at thedoor. It was opened by a coloured maid.
"Who lives here?" he asked.
"Miss Lillian Drew."
David stepped inside. "Please tell her I'd like to see her. I'm from Mr.Morton."
The maid directed him toward the parlour and went to summon hermistress. At the parlour door David was met with the heavy perfume ofviolets. The room was showily furnished with gilt, upholstery, vividhangings, painted bric-a-brac--all with a stiff shop-newness thatsuggested recently acquired funds. An ash-tray on the gildedcentre-table held several cigarette stubs. On the lid of the uprightpiano was the last song that had pleased Broadway, and on the piano'stop stood a large photograph of a man with a shrewd, well-fed face, hisderby hat pushed back, his hands in his trousers pockets, a jewelledsaddle in his necktie. Across this picture of portly jauntiness wasscrawled, "To lovely Lil, from Jack."
David had no more than seated himself upon a surface of bluechrysanthemums and taken in these impressions, when the portieres partedand between them appeared a tall, slender woman in a trained house-gownof pink silk, with pearls in her ears and a handful of rings on herfingers. She looked thirty-five, and had a bold, striking beauty, thoughit was perhaps a trifle over-accentuated by the pots and pencils of herdressing-table. Possibly her nature had its kindly st
rain--doubtless shecould smile alluringly; but just now her dark eyes gazed at David inhard, challenging suspicion.
David rose. "Is this Miss Drew?"
"You are from Phil Morton?" she asked.
He shivered at the implied familiarity with Morton. "I am."
She crossed to a chair and, as she seated herself, spread her trainfan-wise to its full display. Her near presence seemed to uncork newbottles of violet perfume.
"Why didn't he come himself?" she demanded, her quick, brilliant eyesdirectly upon David.
It was as her note had indicated--she didn't read the papers. Obeying anunformed policy, David refrained from acquainting her with the truth.
"He's not at home. I've come because his affairs are left with me."
Her eyes gleamed. "So he's run away from home!" She sneered, but thesneer could not wholly hide her disappointment. "That won't save him!"She paused an instant. "Well--what're you here for?"
"I told you I represent him."
"You're his lawyer?"
"I'm his friend."
"Well, I'm listening. Go on."
The fear had taken on an almost definite shape. David shrunk from whathe was beginning to see. But it was his duty to settle the affair, andsettle it he could not without knowing its details. "To begin with, Ishall have to ask some information from you," he said with an effort."Mr. Morton left this matter entirely in my hands, but he told menothing concerning its nature."
She half closed her eyes, and regarded David intently. "You brought themoney?" she asked abruptly.
"No."
"Then he's----" She made a grim cipher with her forefinger, and stoodup. "If there's no money, good afternoon!"
David did not rise. He guessed her dismissal to be a bit of play-acting."Whatever comes to you must come through me," he said, "and you ofcourse realise that nothing can come from me till I understand thesituation."
"He understands it. That's enough."
"Oh, very well then. I see you want nothing." David determined to tryplay-acting himself. He rose. "Let it be good-afternoon."
She stopped him at the portieres, as he had expected. "It's mightyqueer, when Morton's been trying hard to keep this thing between himselfand me, for him to send a third person here."
"I can't help that," he returned with a show of indifference.
"But how do I know you really represent him?"
"You must take my word for it. Or you can telephone St. Christopher'sand ask if David Aldrich is not in charge of his affairs."
She eyed him steadily for a space. "You look on the square," she saidabruptly; then she added with an ominous look: "If there's no money, youknow what'll happen!"
David shrugged his shoulders. "I told you I know nothing."
She was thoughtfully silent for several minutes. David studied her face,in preparation for the coming conflict. He saw that appeal to herbetter parts would avail nothing. He could guess that she needed money;it was plainly her nature, when roused, to spare nothing to gain herdesire. And if defeated, she could be vindictive, malevolent.
In her inward struggle between caution and desire for money, greed hadthe assistance of her pride; for a woman living upon her attraction formen, is by nature vain of her conquests. Also, David's physicalappearance was an element in the contest. Her quick bold eyes, lookinghim over, noted that he was tall and straight, square of shoulder,good-looking.
Greed and its allies won. "Well, if you want to know, come back," shesaid.
David resumed his seat. She stood thinking a moment, then went to awriting-desk. For all his suspense, David was aware she was trying todisplay her graces and her gown. She rustled to his chair with theunhinged halves of a gold locket in her hand.
"Suppose we begin here," she said, handing him one half of the locket."Perhaps you'll recognise it--though that was taken in eighty-five."
David did recognise it. It was Lillian Drew at twenty. The face wasfresh and spirited, and had in an exceptional measure the sort of beautyadmired in the front row of a musical-comedy chorus. It was not a badface; had the girl's previous ten years been otherwise, the presentLillian Drew would have been a very different woman; but the face showedplainly that she had gone too far for any but an extraordinary power orexperience to turn her about. It was bold, striking, luring--a face ofstrong appeal to man's baser half--telling of a girl who would makeadvances if the man held back.
David felt that she waited for praise. "It's a handsome face."
"You're not the first to say so," she returned, proudly.
She let him gaze at the picture a full minute, keenly watching his facefor her beauty's effect. Then she continued:
"That is the picture of a girl in Boston. And this"--a jewelled handgave him the locket's other half--"is a young man in Harvard."
David knew whose likeness was in the locket, yet something snappedsharply within him when he looked upon the boyish face of Morton attwenty-one. It was the snap of suspense. His fear was now certainty.
"She probably wouldn't have suited you"--the tone declared she certainlywould--"but Phil Morton certainly had it bad for four or five months."
David forced himself to his duty--to search this relationship to itslimits. "And then--he broke it off?" he asked, with a sudden desire tomake her smart.
"No man ever threw me down," she returned sharply, her cheeks flushing."I got tired of him. A woman soon gets tired of a mere boy like that.And he was repenting about a third of the time, and preaching to meabout reforming myself. To live with a man like that----it's not living.I dropped him."
"But all this was fifteen years ago," David said, calm by an effort."What has that to do with your note?"
She sank into a chair before him, and ran the tip of her tongue betweenher thin lips. She leaned back luxuriously, clasped her be-ringed handsbehind her head, and regarded him amusedly from beneath her pencilledeye-lashes.
"A woman comes to New York about four months ago. She was--well, thingshadn't been going very well with her. After a month she learns a man isin town she had once--temporarily married. She hasn't heard anythingabout him for fifteen years. He is a minister, and has a reputation. Shehas some letters he wrote her while they had been--such good friends.She guesses he would just as soon the letters should not be made public.She has a talk with him; she guessed right.... Now you understand?"
David leaned forward, his face pale. "You mean Morton has been payingyou--to keep still?"
She laughed softly. She was enjoying this display of her power. "In thelast three months he has paid me the trifling sum of five thousand."
David stared at her.
"And he's going to pay me a lot more, or--the letters!"
His head sank before her bright, triumphant eyes, and he was silent. Hewas a confusion of thoughts and emotions, amid which only one thoughtwas distinct--to protect Morton if he could. He tried to push all elsefrom his mind and think of this alone.
A minute or more passed. Then he looked up. His face was still pale,but set and hard. "You are mistaken in at least one point," he said.
"And that?"
"About the money you are going to get. There'll be no more."
"Why not?" she asked with amused superiority.
"Because the letters are valueless." He watched her sharply to see theeffect of his next words. "Philip Morton was buried two days ago."
Her hands fell from her head and she stood up, suddenly white. "It's alie!"
"He was buried two days ago," David repeated.
Her colour came back, and she sneered. "It's a lie. You're trying totrick me."
David rose, drew out a handful of clippings he had cut from thenewspapers, and silently held them toward her. She glanced at aheadline, and her face went pale again. She snatched the clippings, readone half through, then flung them all from her, and abruptly turnedabout--as David guessed, to hide from him the show of her loss.
In a few moments she wheeled around, wearing a defiant smile. "Then Ishall make the letters public!"
/>
"What good will that do you? Think of all those people----"
"What do I care for those people!" she cried. "I'll let them see whattheir saint was like!"
David stepped squarely before her; his tall form towered above her, hisdark eyes gleamed into hers. "You shall do nothing of the kind," hesaid harshly. "You are going to turn over the letters to me."
She did not give back a step. "Oh, I am, am I!" she sneered. At thisclose range, penetrating the violet perfume, he caught a newodour--brandy.
"You certainly are! You're guilty of the crime of blackmail. You'veconfessed it to me, and I have your letter demanding money--there'sproof enough. The punishment is years in prison. Give me those letters,or I'll have a policeman here in five minutes."
She was shaken, but she forced another sneer. "To take me to court isthe quickest way to make the letters public," she returned. "You'rebluffing."
He was, to an extent--but he knew his bluff was a strong one. "If youkeep them, you will give them out," he went on grimly. "Between yourmaking them public and going unharmed, and their coming out in thecourse of the trial that will send you to prison, I choose the latter.Morton is dead; the letters can't hurt him now. And I'd like to see yousuffer. The letters, or prison--take your choice!"
She slowly drew back from him, and her look of defiance gave place tofear. She stared without speaking at his square face, fierce withdetermination--at his roused, dominating masculinity.
"Which is it to be?"
She did not move.
"You choose prison then. Very well. I'll be back in five minutes."
He turned and started to leave the room.
"Wait!"
He looked round and saw a thoroughly frightened face.
"I'll get them."
She passed out through the beflowered portieres, and in a few minutesreturned with a packet of yellow letters, which she laid in David'shand.
"These are all?" he demanded.
"Yes."
A more experienced investigator might have detected an unnatural note inher voice that would have prompted a further pursuit of his question;but David was satisfied, and did not mark a cunning look as he passedon.
"Here's another matter," he said threateningly. "If ever a breath ofthis comes out, I'll know it comes from you, and up you'll go forblackmail. Understand?"
Now that danger was over her boldness began to flow back into her. "Ido," she said lightly.
He left her standing amid her crumpled, forgotten train. As he waspassing into the hall, she called to him:
"Hold on!"
He turned about.
She looked at him with fear, effrontery, admiration. "You're all right!"she cried. "You're a real man!"
* * * * *
As David came into the street, his masterful bearing fell from him likea loosened garment. There was no disbelieving the prideful revelation ofLillian Drew--and as he walked on he found himself breathing, "Thank Godfor Philip's death!" Had Philip lived, with that woman dangling him atthe precipitous edge of exposure, life would have been only misery andfear--and sooner or later she would have given him a push and over hewould have gone. Death comes too late to some men for their best fame,and to some too early. To Philip Morton it had come in the nick of time.
One thought, that at first had been merely a vague wonder, grew greaterand greater till it fairly pressed all else from David's mind: where hadPhilip got the five thousand dollars for which Lillian Drew had sold himthree months' silence? David knew that Philip Morton had not a penny ofprivate fortune, only his income as head of the Mission; and that ofthis income not a dollar had been laid by, so open had been his purse tothe hand of distress. He could not have borrowed the money in the usualmanner, for he had no security to give; and sums such as this are notblindly loaned with mere friendship as the pawn.
David entered Philip's study with this new dread pulsing through him. Itwas his duty to his friend to know the truth, and besides, his suspensewas too acute to permit remaining in passive ignorance; so he locked thestudy door and began seeking evidence to dispel or confirm his fear. Hetook the books from the safe--he remembered the combination from thesummer he had spent at the Mission--and turned them through, afraid tolook at each new page. But the books dealt only with small sums forincidental expenses; the large bills were paid by cheque from thetreasurer of the Board of Trustees. There was nothing here. He lookedthrough the papers in the desk--among them no reference to the money. Hescrutinised every page of paper in the safe, except the contents of onelocked compartment. No reference. Knowing he would find nothing, heexamined Morton's private bank-book: a record of the monthly chequedeposited and numerous small withdrawals--that was all.
And then he picked up a note-book that all the while had been lying onthe desk. He began to thumb it through, not with hope of discovering aclue but merely as a routine act of a thorough search. It was halfengagement book, half diary. David turned to the page dated with the dayof Morton's death, intending to work from there backwards--and upon thepage he found this note of an engagement:
"5 P. M.--at Mr. Haddon's office--first fall meeting of Boy's Farm Committee."
He turned slowly back through the leaves of September, August, July,June, finding not a single suggestive record. But this memorandum, onthe fifteenth of May, stopped him short:
"Boy's Farm Committee adjourned to-day till fall, as Mr. Chambers and Mr. Haddon go to Europe. Money left in Third National Bank in my name, to pay for farm when formalities of sale are completed."
Instantly David thought of an entry on the first of June recording that,with everything settled save merely the binding formalities, the farmerhad suddenly broken off the deal, having had a better offer.
Here was the money, every instinct told David. But the case was not yetproved; the money might be lying in the bank, untouched. He grasped atthis chance. There must be a bank-book and cheque-book somewhere, heknew, and as he had searched the office like a pocket, except for thedrawer of the safe, he guessed they must be there. After a long hunt forthe key to this drawer, he found a bunch of keys in the trousers Mortonhad worn the day before his death. One of these opened the drawer, andsure enough here were cheque-book and bank-book.
David gazed at these for a full minute before he gained sufficientmastery of himself to open the bank-book. On the first page was thissingle line:
May 15. By deposit 5,000
This was the only entry, and the fact gave him a moment's hope. Heopened the cheque-book--and his hope was gone. Seven stubs recorded thatseven cheques had been drawn to "self," four for $500 each, and threefor $1,000.
Even amid the chill of horror that now enwrapped him, David clearlyunderstood how Morton had permitted himself to use this fund. Here was awoman with power to destroy, demanding money. Here was money for whichaccount need not be rendered for months. In Morton's situation a man ofstrong will, of courageous integrity, might have resigned and told thewoman to do her worst. But David suddenly saw again Morton's dead faceupon the pillow, and he was startled to see that the mouth was small,the chin weak. He now recognised, what he would have recognised beforehad the fault not been hidden among a thousand virtues, that Morton didnot have a strong will. He recognised that a man might have genius andall the virtues, save only courage, and yet fail to carry himselfhonourably through a crisis that a man of merest mediocrity might haveweathered well.
If exposure came--so Temptation must have spoken to Morton--all that hehad done for his neighbours would be destroyed, and with it all hispower for future service. He could take five hundred dollars, buy thewoman's silence, and somehow replace the money before he need accountfor his trust. But she had demanded more, and more, and more; and onceinvolved, his only safety, and that but temporary, was to go on--withthe terror of the day of reckoning before him.
And then, while he sat chilled, David's mind began to add mechanicallythree things together. First, the engagement Philip had had on the
dayof his death with the Boys' Farm Committee; at that he would have had toaccount for the five thousand dollars, and his embezzlement would havebeen laid open. Second, the certainty of exposure from Lillian Drew,since he had no more money to ward it off. Third, was it not remarkablethat Morton's heart trouble, if heart trouble there had been, withfifteen hundred minutes in the day in which to strike, had selected thesingle minute he spent in his bath?
As David struck the sum of these, there crawled into his heart anotherawful fear. Would a man who had not had the courage to face the dangerof one exposure, have the courage to face a double exposure? HadMorton's death been natural, or----
Sickened, David let his head fall forward upon his arms, folded on thedesk--and so he sat, motionless, as twilight, then darkness, crept intothe room.