“Light the other burner, will you?” he requested. “There, thanks, that's better.”
He was a portly man of sixty, with a large head and heavy face. His father had been a Vermont farmer, a man of position and means, according to the easy standard of his times. When the Civil War broke out, young Cornish, who was just commencing the practice of the law, had enlisted as a private in one of the first regiments raised by his State. Prior to this he had overflowed with fervid oratory, and had tried hard to look like Daniel Webster, but a skirmish or two opened his eyes to the fact that the waging of war was a sober business, and the polishing off of his sentences not nearly as important as the polishing off of the enemy. He was still willing to die for the Union, if there was need of it, but while his life was spared it was well to get on. The numerical importance of number one was a belief too firmly implanted in his nature to be overthrown by any patriotic aberration.
His own merits, which he was among the first to recognize, and the solid backing his father was able to give, won him promotion. He had risen to the command of a regiment, and when the war ended was brevetted a brigadier-general of volunteers, along with a score of other anxious warriors who wished to carry the title of general back into civil life, for he was an amiable sort of a Shylock, who seldom overlooked his pound of flesh, and he usually got all, and a little more, than was coming to him.
After the war he married and went West, where he resumed the practice of his profession, but he soon abandoned it for a commercial career. It was not long until he was ranked as one of the rich men of his State. Then he turned his attention to politics, He was twice elected to Congress, and served one term as governor. One of his daughters had married an Italian prince, a meek, prosaic little creature, exactly five feet three inches tall: another was engaged to an English earl, whose debts were a remarkable achievement for so young a man. His wife now divided her time between Paris and London. She didn't think much of New York, which had thought even less of her. He managed to see her once or twice a year. Any oftener would have been superfluous. But it interested him to read of her in the papers, and to feel a sense of proprietorship for this woman, who was spending his money and carrying his name into the centres of elegance and fashion. Personally he disliked fashion, and was rather shy of elegance.
There were moments, however, when he felt his life to be wholly unsatisfactory. He derived very little pleasure from all the luxury that had accumulated about him, and which he accepted with a curious placid indifference. He would have liked the affection of his children, to have had them at home, and there was a remote period in his past when his wife had inspired him with a sentiment at which he could only wonder. He held it against her that she had not understood.
He lurched down solidly into the chair Oakley placed for him. “I hope you are comfortable here,” he said, kindly.
“Oh yes.” He still stood.
“Sit down,” said Cornish. “I don't, as a rule, believe in staying up after midnight to talk business, but I must start East to-morrow.”
He slipped out of his chair and began to pace the floor, with his hands thrust deep in his trousers-pockets. “I want to talk over the situation here. I don't see that the road is ever going to make a dollar. I've an opportunity to sell it to the M. & W. Of course this is extremely confidential. It must not go any further. I am told they will discontinue it beyond this point, and of course they will either move the shops away or close them.” He paused in his rapid walk. “It's too bad it never paid. It was the first thing I did when I came West. I thought it a pretty big thing then. I have always hoped it would justify my judgment, and it promised to for a while until the lumber interests played out. Now, what do you advise, Oakley? I want to get your ideas. You understand, if I sell I won't lose much. The price offered will just about meet the mortgage I hold, but I guess the stockholders will come out at the little end of the horn.”
Oakley understood exactly what was ahead of the stockholders if the road changed hands. Perhaps his face showed that he was thinking of this, for the general observed, charitably: