The Complete Writings of Charles Dudley Warner Part 177

"Nothing," he said, taking a long breath. "Just a st.i.tch. Indigestion.

It must have been the coffee."

Carmen ran to the dining-room, and returned with a winegla.s.s of brandy.

"There, take that."

He drank it. "Yes, that's better. I'm all right now." And he sat still, slowly recovering color and control of himself.

"I'm going to send for the doctor."

"No, no; nonsense. It has all pa.s.sed," and he stretched out his arms and threw them back vigorously. "It was only a moment's faintness. It's quite gone."

He rose from his chair and took a turn or two about the room. Yes, he was quite himself, and he patted Carmen's head as he pa.s.sed and took his seat again. For a moment or two there was silence. Then he said, still as if reflecting:

"Isn't it queer? In that moment of faintness all my life flashed through my mind."

"It has been a very successful life," Carmen said, by way of saying something.

"Yes, yes; but I wonder if it was worth while?"

"If I were a man, I should enjoy the power you have, the ability to do what you will."

"I suppose I do. That is all there is. I like to conquer obstacles, and I like to command. And money; I never did care for money in itself.

But there is a fascination in building up a great fortune. It is like conducting a political or a military campaign. Now, I haven't much interest in anything else."

As he spoke he looked round upon the crowded shelves of his library, and, getting up, went to the corner where there was a shelf of rare editions and took down a volume.

"Do you remember when I got this, Carmen? It was when I was a bachelor.

It was rare then. I saw it quoted the other day as worth twice the price I gave for it."

He replaced it carefully, and walked along the shelves looking at the familiar t.i.tles.

"I used to read then. And you read still; you have time."

"Not those books," she replied, with a laugh. "Those belong to the last generation."

"That is where I belong," he said, smiling also. "I don't think I have read a book, not really read it, in ten years. This modern stuff that pretends to give life is so much less exciting than my own daily experience that I cannot get interested in it. Perhaps I could read these calm old books."

"It is the newspapers that take your time," Carmen suggested.

"Yes, they pa.s.s the time when I am thinking. And they are full of suggestions. I suppose they are as accurate about other things as about me. I used to think I would make this library the choicest in the city.

It is good as far as it goes. Perhaps I will take it up some day--if I live." And he turned away from the shelves and sat down. Carmen had never seen him exactly in this humor and was almost subdued by it.

He began to talk again, philosophizing about life generally and his own life. He seemed to like to recall his career, and finally said: "Uncle Jerry is successful too, and he never did care for anything else--except his family. There is a clerk in my office on five thousand a year who is never without a book when he comes to the office and when I see him on the train. He has a wife and a nice little family in Jersey. I ask him sometimes about his reading. He is collecting a library, but not of rare books; says he cannot afford that. I think he is successful too, or will be if he never gets more than five thousand a year, and is content with his books and his little daily life, coming and going to his family.

Ah, well! Everybody must live his life. I suppose there is some explanation of it all."

"Has anything gone wrong?" asked Carmen, anxiously.

"No, not at all. Nothing to interfere with the house of gold." He spoke quite gently and sincerely. "I don't know what set me into this moralizing. Let's look at the plans."

The next day--it was the first of June--in consultation with the architect, a project was broached that involved such an addition of cost that Carmen hesitated. She declared that it was a question of ways and means, and that she must consult the chairman. Accordingly she called her carriage and drove down to Henderson's office.

It was a beautiful day, a little warm in the narrow streets of the lower city, but when she had ascended by the elevator to the high story that Henderson occupied in one of the big buildings that rise high enough to give a view of New York Harbor, and looked from the broad windows upon one of the most sparkling and animated scenes in the world, it seemed to her appreciative eyes a day let down out of Paradise.

The clerks all knew Mrs. Henderson, and they rose and bowed as she tripped along smiling towards her husband's rooms. It did not seem to be a very busy day, and she found no one waiting in the anteroom, and pa.s.sed into the room of his private secretary.

"Is Mr. Henderson in?"

"Yes, madam."

"And busy?"

"Probably busy," replied the secretary, with a smile, "but he is alone.

No one has disturbed him for over half an hour."

"Then I will go in."

She tapped lightly at the door. There was no response. She turned the k.n.o.b softly and looked in, and then, glancing back at the secretary, with a finger uplifted, "I think he is asleep," opened the door, stepped in, and closed it carefully.

The large room was full of light, and through the half-dozen windows burst upon her the enchanting scene of the Bay, Henderson sat at his table, which was covered with neatly arranged legal doc.u.ments, but bowed over it, his head resting upon his arms.

"So, Rodney, this is the way, old boy, that you wear yourself out in business!"

She spoke laughingly, but he did not stir, and she tiptoed along to awaken him.

She touched his hand. It moved heavily away from her hand. The left arm, released, dropped at his side.

She started back, her eyes round with terror, and screamed.

Instantly the secretary was at her side, and supported her, fainting, to a seat. Other clerks rushed in at the alarm. Henderson was lifted from his chair and laid upon a lounge. When the doctor who had been called arrived, Carmen was in a heap by the low couch, one arm thrown across the body, and her head buried in the cus.h.i.+on close to his.

The doctor instantly applied restoratives; he sent for an electric battery; everything was done that science could suggest. But all was of no avail. There was no sign of life. He must have been dead half an hour, said the doctor. It was evidently heart-failure.

Before the doctor had p.r.o.nounced his verdict there was a whisper in the Stock Exchange.

"Henderson is dead!"

"It is not possible," said one.

"I saw him only yesterday," said another.

"I was in his office this morning," said a third. "I never saw him looking in better health."

The whisper was confirmed. There was no doubt of it. Henderson's private secretary had admitted it. Yet it seemed incredible. No provision had been made for it. Speculation had not discounted it.

A panic set in. No one knew what to do, for no one knew well the state of Henderson's affairs. In the first thirty minutes there was a tremendous drop in Henderson stocks. Then some of them rallied, but before the partial recovery hundreds of men had been ruined. It was a wild hour in the Exchange. Certain stocks were hopelessly smashed for the time, and some combinations were destroyed; among them was one that Uncle Jerry had kept out of; and Jack Delancy was hopelessly ruined.

The event was flashed over the wires of the continent; it was bulletined; it was cried in the streets; it was the all-absorbing talk of the town.

Already, before the dead man was removed to his own house, people were beginning to moralize about him and his career. Perhaps the truest thing was said by the old broker in the board whose reputation for piety was only equaled by his reputation of always having money to loan at exorbitant rates in a time of distress. He said to a group of downcast operators, "In the midst of life we are in death."