“Lost—everything lost! After all these years of building up, to be ruined now. Good God! I shall go mad—mad!”
When a man of his caliber gives way under a severe strain, there is a terrible danger of his mind going. Aleck Craig once studied for a doctor, and realizes the desperate nature of the situation. The operator has apparently forgotten all about the fact that his mansion is filled with guests. Upon his mind weighs the one terrible thought of ruin. It glares at him from the walls in malignant letters—everywhere he sees in letters of fire the awful word that is seared upon his brain.
A proud man Samson Cereal has been. Up to this time he has been very conservative, and small-sized panics have passed him unharmed. This summer’s dullness in trade has tempted him to make a break in a direction whither he has never before trod. By degrees he has gone in deeper and deeper until everything that he has in the wide world is risked; and this during a time when, owing to the public alarm, one cannot raise a thousand dollars on securities worth twenty times the amount. Instead of diminishing, the old man’s agitation seems to increase. He staggers as he walks, and then suddenly drops into a chair, where his chin falls upon his breast. Such an attitude of dejection Aleck never before looked upon.
He remembers that it is his duty to tell the children of this man that Samson Cereal may be dying there in his chair. Heaven knows he looks about as much like a dying man as the human mind could conceive. A tragedy seems imminent, and yet Aleck feels that the fact should not be made known if it is possible to keep it a secret. These people have come here for pleasure—why then should they be disturbed in their search for it. They have no especial interest in Samson Cereal, beyond the fact that he is rich and gives entertainments that it is an honor to attend. The speculator may sink out of sight and his disappearance create but a slight ripple on the sea in which he swims.
Aleck has some such idea as this in his brain, as he gently closes the library door, and moves away to find the son and daughter.
Somehow the gay scene has lost all its attractions for him. He can remember only the agony he has seen depicted upon the face of the man in the library—the man who wrestles with the pent-up feelings of his soul, now bursting their barriers and flowing over.
Among the guests he sees Dorothy, and as he looks upon the fair vision he hates himself because necessity compels him to bring pain to her. If it were possible he would shield her—that is the thought that flashes into his mind, and it proves how far the young Canadian is gone in the realm of love.
Now he catches her eye and makes a quick motion with his hand. She seems to understand and, leaving her friends, comes up to him. Upon her face is a look of inquiry—perhaps even a shade of alarm. Of course her first thought is in connection with John.
He knows curious eyes must be upon her most of the time, and desires to protect her.
“Miss Dorothy, can you be brave to take a sudden shock without showing these people that something has happened?” he says quietly.