“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 15 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 16 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 17 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 in on the ground floor, and made it look so rosy, withal, that I succumbed. Two hundred thousand was buried there. An equal amount I had lent them, at six per cent., shortly after I came to Northumberland—selling the securities that yielded only four per cent. to do it. That accounts for four hundred thousand—gone up the flume. Eighty thousand I lost in stocks. The remainder, about twenty thousand, I still have. By some error I can’t account for, they did not get away with it, too.—Such is the tale of a foolish man,” he ended.
“Will you make any effort to have Royster prosecuted?” Macloud asked.
“No—I’ve been pretty much of a baby, but I’m not going to cry over milk that’s spilt.”