1
IT took some years to become a “rich fool,” but Garrison accomplished it. He had no business ability, at least that is what he told people, and honestly believed it; how could he? he had never been in business. He thought it well over, and became what he had always condemned in others—a gambler. He risked every dollar he had, and all he could borrow in hazardous real estate speculations. It was touch and go many times, as the values rose and fell. They called him “Lucky Garrison”; he knew better, but there was a grim satisfaction in his success. He realized as he had learnt to manipulate money that a man can attain nothing without it. Other “big” interests developed. Every bit of his energy came into play; there was always some interesting thing coming up, which led to great connections, such as international finance and the like. New “deals” got to be a necessary physical tonic, like a cocktail before dinner, and a strong cigar and black coffee after....
He scanned the morning paper at the breakfast table, looking carefully over the financial news and rate of exchange.
“We are sailing into prosperous times,” said he to Julie. He was an optimist, like all good American millionaires. Julie had no opinion, she smiled.
As Dr. McClaren predicted, her religious mania passed off—she was now deeply interested in Art, a patroness of the Museum, and much sought after by budding talent. Floyd encouraged this “mania”; it was harmless. There was a busy day before him, a big deal to close; he was in a hurry to get to his office. She went with him to the door. He looked up at the imposing staircase and beautiful Tiffany glass window. He hated it once; how could he have been so prejudiced? It was all in the very best of taste, Julie was perfectly framed in it.
“I’ll meet you at the Museum about five o’clock; we’ll drive around for an hour. I forgot to tell you, I’ve invited some men to dinner; it’s business. Do you mind?”
Julie smiled again.
“Oh, no!”
With a sudden impulse he took her hand.
“Are you happy, Julie?”
She looked at him; what made him ask that?
“Oh yes!—I have every reason to be.”
“Is there anything I can buy for you?”
“Nothing.”
She stood watching him drive off and waved her hand. It was well-known in their circle that the Garrisons were a very devoted couple.
Floyd leaned back in the car, puffing at a cigar. The years had changed him; the sensitive boy had become a man of affairs, a Capitalist. He was very sane; his Puritan instincts rebelled against the rioting emotions of the Latins. His life was made up of facts and figures; ultimately he would have become an image of clay, like his father’s statues, but there was a secret element of his life, of which no one had the slightest clue. The Past had ceased to torture him; it became a consolation. He lived over and over again the Romance of his youth, the agony, the passion, his first years with Julie, the rage of the murderer, the whole tragedy, but it didn’t hurt him now; Martin was dead, forgiven. We count the years we have lived to know how old we are—correct mathematics, but our age corresponds to other numbers. Heart swings are the rhythm of our seasons, recording in spiritual time, the real life.
The car stopped in Twelfth Street. Floyd jumped out, stood for a moment looking up at the imposing twenty-story office building which he had erected on the site of his old home. It had rented well. There was not a room empty. He had retained an office for himself on the third floor. He sat down to his desk, read his mail. He was about to sell the building—the psychological moment had come to “turn it over” and get a handsome profit. He never kept any real estate very long. New York neighborhoods change and values fluctuate. Then it occurred to him quite suddenly that the room in which he sat was about the height of his father’s workshop in the little house where he was born. There was no emotion, but it was strange he had never thought of it before. He looked at the heavy safe, the walls lined with repositories, where contracts were kept—and saw—clay images. He looked down at his desk; it was littered with old rags, bits of arms, legs—a young man, with an agonized face, dropped a candle.
He smiled. What courage youth has! It was well done. The home of his childhood was still his; he had not desecrated it. He saw Mary flying past him up the stairs; she had become a world figure, the head of an international organization of nurses. When Julie’s “headaches” came on, Mary was always there. He’d go softly to the door and wait; he didn’t knock; he knew she’d come out.
“Mrs. Garrison is much better; I’m sure she’ll be all right in the morning.” Then the worn face, dim eyes, streaked hair would vanish. She stood again at the window in her bare room, where they had loved each other for a moment.
The telephone at his elbow startled him. Julie’s voice—would he order some flowers for the dinner table.
“Certainly, and a bunch for you. Anything else?”
“Yes,” her tone became confidential. “What wine do you want served?—are the gentlemen heavy drinkers?”
“No, but they’ll take all you give them.”
He dropped the receiver, smiling. How eager he used to be to do all those small errands! the night of their house-warming—he drank too much. That Swede was a nice man. The den on the top floor was hung now with maps of suburban towns, new fields for speculation; he spent many evenings poring over them. Somehow his business mind always worked well up there in that room where a man was murdered by his wife.
The stenographer put a paper before him. He started, came back to reality; it was a bill of sale and very satisfactory.
“I’ll close the deal tonight.”
Then he commenced searching in an old desk for some papers he wanted, and came across a sealed envelope; on it was written “Boodle.”
Boodle? What did it mean? He broke the seal and took out three five-dollar bills.
Tom Dillon! He had quite forgotten him, but he had a vague idea that he owned a Taxi Company, and was strong in local politics.
He put back the fifteen dollars, resealed the envelope, and wrote on it, “The foundation of the Garrison fortune.” He would give the story to his publicity man—how an impoverished son of wealth started in life by earning fifteen dollars as a chauffeur. Tom Dillon! was the real thing. What was the real thing? Had he found it? or was he chasing phantoms? He had that feeling sometimes, in his most successful moments; it was a queer sensation, as if he had caught a thing of vapor that melted out of hand and challenged him again from far off—and again that shadow race!
He thought often of Tom Dillon after that, and one election night he saw him in the crowd, with a fine young fellow, the image of his father; they were laughing and nudging each other like two boy friends. Floyd shook off a feeling of loneliness and got out of their way.