When he did speak, he only said: “Why not?”
I went to my desk and brought a sheet of paper filled with figures. “I have made this up since you spoke to me this morning,” I said, laying it before him.
That was false—a trifling falsehood to prevent him from misunderstanding my conduct in making a long and quiet investigation. The truth is that that crucial paper was the work of a great many days, and not a few nights, of thought and labour—it was my cast for my million.
The paper seemed to show at a glance that the firm was practically ruined, and that Mr. Judson himself was insolvent. It was to a certain extent an over-statement, or, rather, a sort of anticipation of conditions that would come to pass within a year or two if Mr. Judson were permitted to hold to his course. While in a sense I took advantage of his ignorance of our business and his own, and also of his lack of familiarity with all commercial matters, yet, on the other hand, it was not sensible that I should tide him over and carry him, and it was vitally necessary that I should get my million. Had he been shrewder, I should have got it anyhow, only I should have been compelled to use methods that, perhaps, would have seemed less merciful.
I sat beside him as he read; and, while I pitied him, for I am human, after all, I felt more strongly a sense of triumph, that I, the poor, the obscure, by sheer force of intellect, had raised myself up to where I had my foot upon the neck of this proud man, ranking so high among New York’s distinguished merchants and citizens. I have had many a triumph since, and over men far superior to Judson; but I do not think that I have ever so keenly enjoyed any other victory as this, my first and most important.
Still, I pitied him as he read, with face growing older and older, and, with his pride shot through the vitals, quivering in its death agony. I said, gently, when he had finished and had buried his face in his hands: “Now, do you understand, Mr. Judson, why I won’t sign away my commercial honour and my children’s bread?”
He shrank and shivered, as if, instead of having spoken kindly to him, I had struck him. “Spare me!” he said, brokenly. “For God’s sake, spare me!” and, after a moment, he groaned and exclaimed: “and I—I—have ruined this house, established by my grandfather and held in honour for half a century!” A longer pause, then he lifted his haggard face—he looked seventy rather than fifty-five; his eyeballs were sunk in deep, blue-black sockets; his whole expression was an awful warning of the consequences of recklessness in business. I have never forgotten it. “I trust you,” he said; “what shall I do?”
He placed himself entirely in my hands; or, rather, he left his affairs where they had been, except when he was muddling them, for more than six years. I dealt generously by him, for I bought him out by the use of my excellent personal credit, and left him a small fortune in such shape that he could easily manage it. He was free of all business cares; I had taken upon my shoulders not only the responsibilities of that great business, but also a load of debt which would have staggered and frightened a man of less courageous judgment.
I did not see him when the last papers were signed—he was ill and they were sent to his house. Two or three weeks later I heard that he was convalescent and went to see him. Now that he was no longer in my way, and that the debt of gratitude was transferred from me to him, I had only the kindliest, friendliest feelings for him. Those few weeks had made a great change in me. I had grown, I had come into my own, I realised how high I was above the mass of my fellow-men, and I was insisting upon and was receiving the respect that was my due. My sensations, as I entered the Judson house, were vastly different from what they were when the pompous butler admitted me on the occasion of the one previous visit, and I could see that he felt strongly the alteration in my station. I felt generous pity as I went into the library and looked down at the broken old failure huddled in a big chair. What an unlovely thing is failure, especially grey-haired failure! I said to myself: “How fortunate for him that this helpless creature fell into my hands instead of into the hands of some rascal or some cruel and vindictive man!” I was about to speak, but something in his steady gaze restrained me.
“I have admitted you,” he said, in a surprisingly steady voice, when he had looked me through and through, “because I wish you to hear from me that I know the truth. My son-in-law returned from Europe last week, and, learning what changes had been made, went over all the papers.”