MR. FORBES stood in his office, his eyes rivetted on a narrow belt of telegraph ticking which slipped loosely through his hands, yard after yard, from a machine on the table. As it fell to the floor and coiled and piled about him, until the upper part of his body alone was visible, it seemed to typify the rising waters of Wall Street. Outside, the city was white and radiant, under snow and electric light. In the comfortable office the curtains were drawn, a gas log flamed in the grate, and the electric loops were hot.
Mr. Forbes had stood motionless for an hour. His hat was on the back of his head. His brow was corrugated. His lips were pressed together, his eyes like flint. The secretary and clerk had addressed him twice, but had been given no heed. The hieroglyphics on that strip of white paper sliding so rapidly through his fingers had his brain in their grip. For the moment he was a financial machine, nothing more.
Suddenly the ticking was softly brushed from his hands, the coils about him kicked apart by a little foot, and he looked down into the face of his wife. She was enveloped in sables; her cheeks were brilliant with the pink of health and cold. Mr. Forbes’ brow relaxed; he drew a deep sigh and removed his hat.
“Well! I am glad I came for you,” she exclaimed. “I believe you would have stood there all night. You looked like a statue. Is anything wrong?”
“I have merely stood here and watched a half million drift through my fingers,” he said. “Northern Consolidated is dropping like a parachute that won’t open. But let us go home. I am very glad you came down.”
When they were in the brougham she slipped her hand into his under cover of the rug. “Are you worried?” she asked.
“No; I don’t know that I am. I can hold on, and when this panic is over the stock will undoubtedly go up again. I have only a million in it. But I am sorry for Creighton. About two-thirds of all he’s got are in this railroad, and I’m afraid he won’t be able to hold on. But let us drop the subject. The thing has got to rest until to-morrow morning, and I may as well rest, too. Besides, nothing weighs very heavily when I am at home. Are we booked for anything to-night?”
“There is Mary Gallatin’s musicale. She has Melba and Maurel. And there is the big dance at the Latimer Burr’s. But if you are tired I don’t care a rap about either. Augusta can go with Harriet.”
“Do stay home; that’s a good girl. I am tired; and what is worse, a lot of men will get me into the smoking-room and talk ‘slump.’ If I could spend the evening lying on the divan in your boudoir, while you read or played to me, I should feel that life was quite all that it should be.”
“Well, you shall. We have so few good times together in winter.”
He pressed her hand gratefully. “Tell me,” he said after a moment, “do you think this Socialism mooning of Augusta’s means anything?”
“No,” she said contemptuously. “I hope that has not been worrying you. Girls must have their fads. Last year it was pink parrots; this year it is Socialism; next year it will be weddings. By the way, what do you think of the Duke?”
“I can’t say I’ve thought about him at all.”
“He is really quite charming.”
“Is he? His title is, I suppose you mean. Have you seen him since?”
“Since when? Oh, the night of Don Giovanni. I forgot that you had not been home to tea this week. He has dropped in with Fletcher several times.”
“Ah! Well, I hope he improves on acquaintance. What does Augusta think of this magnificent specimen of English manhood?”
“I think she rather likes him. She has seen much more of him than I have, and says that she finds him extremely interesting.”
“Good God!”
“But he must have something to him, Ned dear, for Augusta is very difficile. I never heard her say that a man was interesting before.”
“And she has been surrounded by healthy well-grown self-respecting Americans all her life. The infatuation for titles is a germ disease with Americans, more particularly with New Yorkers. The moment the microbe strikes the blood, inflammation ensues, and the women that get it don’t care whether the immediate cause is a man or a remnant. Is his engagement to Mabel Creighton announced?”
“No; she told Augusta that he had spoken to her but not to her father—that Mr. Creighton was in such a bad humour about something she thought it best to wait a while. I suppose it is this Northern Consolidated business.”
“It certainly is. And if the Dukelet is impecunious, I am afraid Mabel won’t get him, for there will be nothing to buy him with. Don’t speak of this, however. Creighton may pull through: the stock may take a sudden jump, or he may have resources of which I know nothing. I should be the last to hint that he was in a hole. Don’t talk any more here; it strains the voice so.”
They were jolting over the rough stones of Fifth Avenue, where speech rasped and wounded the throat. The long picturesque street of varied architecture throbbed with the life of a winter’s afternoon. The swarm of carriages on the white highway looked like huge black beetles with yellow eyes, multiplying without end. The sidewalks were crowded with opposing tides; girls of the orchid world, brightly dressed, taking their brisk constitutional; young men, smartly groomed, promenading with the ponderous tread of fashion; business men, rushing for the hotels where they could hear the late gossip of Wall Street; the rockets of the opera company, splendidly arrayed, and carrying themselves with a haughty swing which challenged the passing eye; and the contingent that had come to stare. But snow-clouds had brought an early dusk, and all were moving homeward. By the time the Forbes reached their house in the upper part of the Avenue the sidewalks were almost deserted, and snow stars were whirling.
The halls and dining-room of the Forbes mansion were hung with tapestries; all the rooms, though home-like, were stately and imposing, subdued in colour and rich in effect. But if the house had been designed in the main as a proper setting for a very great lady, one boudoir and bedroom were the more personal encompassment of a beautiful and luxurious woman. The walls and windows and doors of the boudoir were hung with raw silk, opal hued. The furniture was covered with the same material. On the floor was a white velvet carpet, touched here and there with pale colour. The opal effect was enhanced by the lamps and ornaments, which cunningly simulated the gem. In one corner was a small piano, enamelled white and opalized by the impressionist’s brush.
The pink satin on the walls of the bedroom gleamed through the delicate mist of lace. A shower of lace half-concealed the low upholstered bed. The deep carpet was pink, the dressing-table a huge pink and white butterfly, with furnishings of pink coral inlaid with gold. A small alcove was walled with a looking-glass. Every four years, when Mr. Forbes was away at the National Convention, his wife refurnished these rooms. She was a woman of abounding variety and knew its potence.
Mr. Forbes passed the evening on the divan in the boudoir, while his wife, attired in a negligée of corn-coloured silk, her warm, heavy hair unbound, played Chopin with soft, smothered touch for an hour, then read to him the latest novel. It was one of many evenings, and when he told her that he was the happiest man alive, she remarked to herself: “It would be the same. I love him devotedly. Nevertheless, during these next few weeks he shall not be allowed to forget just how happy I do make him.”