The Big Mogul

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

Varunas winked again. “I have a suspicion he was,” he chuckled. “’Twas dark and kind of foggy after the rain, and a body that wan’t up to snuff, or hadn’t been tipped off same as I was, would have swore there wan’t another soul within a half mile. But—well, you know that old fish shanty over at the fur side of the Circle, on the rise next the beach? Um-hum. Well, when Hornet and me went past that shanty the first time round it looked to me as if the door was open just a crack. When we went round the second time the crack was wider. It might have been the wind that blowed it open—only there wan’t any wind. He, he, he!”

He slapped his knee in gleeful triumph. Townsend’s smile became a grin.

“All right, Varunas,” he said. “How was the betting the last time you heard?”

“There ain’t much—or there wasn’t yesterday. There might be a little more to-day. Some of them Bayporters might drift over and begin to loosen up; ’specially if Sam and Seth spread the news that Claribel couldn’t do no better’n he done this mornin’.”

“If they do you might let me know.”

“You bet you I will! I’ll let myself know, too, about seven or eight dollars’ worth.... Say, Cap’n, don’t for mercy sakes tell Nabby I said that. She’s death on bettin’ anyhow; and—” with aggrieved indignation, “if I won she’d make me hand her over the heft of the money. The only way for me to keep my winnin’s is to spend ’em quick. I’ve learned that much.”

Foster Townsend left the house soon afterward and strolled, as was his morning custom, about the place, his hands in the pockets of his coat, the soft hat at the back of his head, and his after-breakfast cigar between his teeth. He lingered by the poultry yards, looked at the hogs in their pens, made mental notes of a section of fence which needed repair, decided that the strip of lawn on the left-hand side of the drive should be plowed and reseeded in the spring. His tour of inspection was leisurely, for he enjoyed it. He loved every inch of his domain. It was his. He had earned it. It represented success, the prize at the top of the ladder which he had climbed unaided. He had been a poor boy; now he was a rich man. In his youth the aristocrats of his native town scarcely deigned to notice him; now he was the aristocrat and his was the voice of authority. He had fought his way up from cabin boy to captain of a ship, from captain to owner, from that, through keen trading and daring speculation, to the day when he could afford to retire from active business. The break with his partner, Elisha Cook, and the lawsuit which followed the break, had threatened disaster time after time, but during the years of expensive and worrisome litigation he had never lost his nerve. If Cook won and was awarded even the greater part of the sum for which he was suing, it meant ruin to Townsend, but the risk but made the battle more enjoyable. And Cook had not won. True, the latter and his lawyers had not openly conceded the Townsend victory, but their talk of further fighting was but talk. Foster Townsend’s luck had held, as it had held before, and “luck”—as he saw it—was but the wage of foresight, good judgment, and the courage to back one’s convictions to the limit of safety—yes, and sometimes beyond that limit. He considered himself entitled to the rewards which were his and he enjoyed their possession, the money and the power—particularly the power.

His walk that morning was as satisfactory as usual for a time. It was only when he reached the lattice frame enclosing the flower garden that his complacency departed. The sight of the neat beds and the dead stalks in those beds brought with it a staggering shock. His wife had set out many of those plants with her own hands. She had superintended the setting out of all. Those flowers and that garden were her joy. From early summer until fall she had filled the rooms with blossoms. She would never do it again. She had left that garden and the mansion and him forever and all his money and authority were useless in the face of that irrevocable fact. His loneliness came over him once more, as it had come so often during the week since her funeral. He felt a savage resentment. He was accustomed to having his own way, to forcing his will against all obstacles. Now he—Foster Townsend—was as helpless against this stroke of Fate as the weakest-willed creature in the world.

He returned to the house, the easy-chair, and the paper in the library. He glanced at the clock. The time was nearly eleven. At the close of the interview in the Clark cottage the previous evening he had casually told Esther and Reliance that they might take their time in reaching a decision concerning his proposal. He had told them this, but he had meant it merely as a gracious gesture. He considered the matter settled and had expected an early call and the grateful announcement of acceptance. No one had called and no word had been sent him. He could not understand why and, in his present frame of mind, he resented the delay. What was the matter with those people? Was it possible they did not realize what his offer meant to them and their future? They had best realize it; it would not be repeated.

Dinner was a necessary nuisance to be endured and he got through with it as quickly as possible. Alone in the big dining room, waited upon by Ellen, with the chair at the other end of the table unoccupied, it was no wonder that appetite failed him. In the old days—and they were not so old—his dinner was an event. He was particular about the choice of dishes, insisted upon an abundance of everything, lingered over the dessert, smoked his cigar and listened while Mother chatted of the affairs of the household or repeated town gossip. Very often there were guests—leading politicians of the county; his lawyers down from Boston on business connected with the eternal suit; Judge Baxter and Mrs. Baxter from Ostable; other prominent—though of course less prominent—fellow townspeople like the Snows or the Taylors; on Sundays the minister and his wife. Pleasant company, in complete agreement with his opinions on all subjects, substantial people, people of consequence. They would come now if he asked them, but he had no mind to ask. With that vacant chair opposite his own, the filling of the others would be only an emphasis of his wretchedness.