The Fortune Hunter
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Louis Joseph Vance >> The Fortune Hunter
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Thus it was that he presently called up the stairs in a very cheerful
voice: "Betty, are you pretty near through up there?"
The girl's weary voice came down to him without accent: "Yes, father,
almost."
"Well, then, you keep an eye on the store, please. I'm goin' to step
out for a minute."
"Yes, father."
"And if--if anybody asks for me, I'll most likely be down to the depot,
with Mr. Duncan."
He didn't mention that he contemplated calling on Lockwood, because he
feared it might worry Betty. ... As if a woman doesn't always
understand when things are going wrong!
Betty knew, or rather divined. And she had no hope, no faith such as
made Sam what he was. She came down the steps listlessly, overborne by
her knowledge of the world's wrongness. The glance with which she
comprehended the renovated shop was bitter with contempt. What was the
worth of all this? Nothing good would come of it; nothing good came of
anything. Life was drab and dreary, made up of weary, profitless years
and months and weeks and days, to each its appointed disappointment.
Only her sense of duty sustained her. She owed something to old Sam for
the gift of life, dismal though she found it. He needed her; what she
could do for him she would. I have always thought that her affection
for her father was less filial than maternal. He seemed such a child,
she--so very old! She mothered him; it was her only joy to care for
him. Her care was constant, unfailing, omniscient. In return she got
only his love. But it was almost enough--almost, not quite, dearly as
she prized it. There were other things a girl should have--indeed, must
have, if her life were to be rounded out in fulness. And these, she
understood, were forever denied her: apples of Paradise growing in her
sight, heartrending in their loveliness so far beyond her reach....
Sighing, she went to work. In work only could she forget.... The soda
glasses needed cleaning, and the syrup jars replenishing (for the new
order of syrups had come in the previous evening).
After a time, to a tune of pounding feet, Tracey Tanner pranced into
the shop with all the graceful abandon of a young elephant feeling its
oats. His face was fairly scarlet from exertion and his eyes bulging
with a sense of importance. The girl looked up without interest,
nodding slightly in response to his breathless: "'Lo, Betty."
"Father's gone out," she said, holding a glass to the light, suspicious
of the lint from her dish towel.
"I know--seen him down the street." The boy halted at the counter,
producing a handful of square envelopes. "Note for you from the
Lockwoods, Betty," he panted. "Josie ast me to bring it round."
Betty put down her glass in consternation. From the Lockwoods?"
"Uh-huh." Tracey offered it, but she withheld her hand, dubious.
"For me, Tracey?"
"Uh-huh. It's a ninvitation. I got four more to take." He thrust it
into her reluctant fingers. "Got five, really, but one of 'em's for
me."
"An invitation, Tracey!"
"Yeh. Hope you have a good time when it comes off." Already he was
bouncing toward the door. "Goo'-bye."
"But what is it, Tracey?"
"Aw, it tells in the ninvitation. S'long."
"From the Lockwoods!" she whispered.
Suddenly she tore it open, her hands unsteady with nervousness.
The envelope contained a square of heavy cardboard of a creamy tint
with scalloped edges touched with gold. On the face of the card a round
and formless hand had traced with evident pains the information:
Miss Josephine Mae Lockwood
Requests the Pleasure of your Company at a Lawn Fete and Dance to be
held at the residence of her Parents, Mr. & Mrs. Geo. Lockwood,
Saturday July 15, at 8 p. m. R.S.V.P.
The envelope fluttered to the floor while the card was crushed between
the girl's hands. For a moment her face was transfigured with delight,
her eyes blank with rapturous visions of the joys of that promised
night.
"Oh!... it 'ud be grand!..."
Then suddenly the light faded. Her eyes clouded, her face settled into
its discontented lines. She stuffed the card heedlessly into the pocket
of her dingy apron, and took up another glass.
"But I can't go; I've got nothin' to wear...."
XI
BLINKY LOCKWOOD
She was scrubbing blindly at the same glass when, a quarter of an hour
later, Blinky Lockwood strode into the store, his right eye twitching
more violently than usual, as it always does in his phases of mental
disturbance--as when, for instance, he fears he's going to lose a
dollar.
Lockwood is that type of man who was born to grow rich. He inherited a
farm or two in the vicinity of Radville and the one over Westerly way,
to which I have referred, and ... well, we've a homely paraphrase of a
noted aphorism in Radville: "Them as has, gits." Lockwood had, to begin
with, and he made it his business to get; and, as is generally the case
in this unbalanced world of ours, things came to him to which he had
never aspired. Fortune favoured him because he had no need of her
favours; the discovery of coal under his Westerly acres was wholly
adventitious, but it made him far and away the richest man in
Radville--with the possible exception of old Colonel Bohun's
traditional millions.
In person he is as beautiful as a snake-fence, as alluring as a stone
wall. Something over six feet in height, he walks with a stoop (one
hand always in a trouser-pocket jingling silver) that materially
detracts from his stature. His face, like his figure, is gaunt and
lanky, his nose an emaciated beak; his mouth illustrates his attitude
toward property--is a trap from which nothing of value ever escapes;
his eyes are small and hard and set close together under lowering
brows. He's grizzled, with hair not actually white, but grey as the iron
from which his heart was fashioned. Aside from these characteristics his
principal peculiarity is a nervous twitching of the right eye which has
earned him his sobriquet of Blinky. Legrand Gunn said he contracted the
affliction through squinting at the silver dollar to make sure none of
its milling had been worn off. ... I have never known the man to wear
anything but a rusty old frock coat, black, of course, and black and
shiny broadcloth trousers, with a hat that has always a coating of dust
so thick that it seems a mottled grey.
He grunts his words, a grunt to each. He grunted at Betty when he saw
her.
"Where's your father?"
She put down her glass and dish-rag. "I don't know, sir."
"Don't know, eh?" he asked in an indescribably offensive tone.
"I think he went to the bank to see you."
"Oh, he did, eh? Did he have anything for me."
The girl took up another glass. "I don't know, sir," she said wearily.
"I'm afraid not."
"Well, if he didn't there's no use see in' me. It won't do him any
good."
"I guess he knows that," she returned with a little flash of spirit.
Lockwood looked her up and down as if he had never seen her before,
then summarised his resentful impression of her attitude in an open
sneer. "Does, eh? Well, that's a good thing; saves talk."
She contained herself, saying nothing. He glared round the place,
remarking the improvements.
"You don't do no business here, not to speak of, do ye?"
"No," she admitted without interest, "not to speak of."
"Then what's the good of all this foolishness, fixing up?"
"I don't know."
"Costs money, don't it?"
"I guess so."
"And that money belongs to me."
"It's Mr. Duncan's doing. Father ain't paying for it. He can't."
"What's he doin', then? Sittin' round foolin' with his inventions,
ain't he?"
"Yes."
"What's he inventin' now?"
"I don't know much about it." She pointed to the model beneath the
window. "That's the last thing, I guess."
Blinky snorted and stamped over to the window, stooping to peer at the
machine. "What's the good of that?" he demanded, disdainful; and
without waiting for her response went on nagging. "Foolishness! That's
what it is. Why don't you tell him not to waste his time this way?"
"Because he likes it," said Betty hopelessly. "It's the only thing that
makes life worth while to him. So I let him alone."
"What difference does that make? It don't bring him in nothin', does
it?"
"No ..."
"Nor do any good?"
"No."
"No, siree, it don't. He'd oughter stop it. What does he do with them
things when he gets 'em finished?"
"Patents them."
"And then what?"
"Nothin' that I know of."
"That's it; nothing--nor ever will. Well, he's been getting money from
me for those patents--I thought at fust there might be somethin' in
'em--but he won't any more. I'd oughter had more sense."
A little colour spotted the girl's sallow cheeks. "He'd never ha' got
money from you if he hadn't thought he could pay it back," she told
Blinky hotly.
"No, nor if I hadn't thought he could----"
She interjected a significant "Huh!" He broke off abruptly, pale with
anger.
"Well, I want to see him, and I want to see him before noon," he
snapped. "I'm goin' over to the bank, an' if he knows what's good for
him he'll come there pretty darn quick."
"I'll try to find him for you; he must be somewhere round," she
offered.
"Well, you better. I ain't got much patience to-day."
He swung on one heel and slouched out, as Betty turned to go upstairs.
Presently she reappeared pinning on her sad little hat, and left the
store.
It was upwards of an hour before she returned, walking quickly and very
erect, with her head up and shoulders back, her eyes suspiciously
bright, the spots of colour in her cheeks blazing scarlet, her mouth
set and hard, the little work-worn hands at her sides clenched tightly
as if for self-control. Even old Sam, who had returned from the depot
after missing Blinky at the bank--even he, blind as he ordinarily was,
saw instantly that something was wrong with the child.
"Why, Betty!" he cried in solicitude as she flung into the
store--"Betty, dear, what's the matter?"
For an instant she seemed speechless. Then she tore the hat from her
head and cast it regardlessly upon the counter. "Father!" she cried.
"Father!"--and gulped to down her emotion. "Can you get me some money?"
"Money? Why, Betty, what--?"
Her foot came down on the floor impatiently. "Can you get me some
money?" she repeated in a breath.
"Well--er--how much, Betty?" He tried to touch her, to take her to his
arms, but she moved away, her sorry little figure quivering from head
to feet.
"Enough," she said, half sobbing--"enough to buy a dress--a nice
dress--a dress that will surprise folks--"
"But tell me what the matter is, Betty. Wanting a dress would never
upset you like this."
She whipped the cracked and crumpled card from her pocket and pushed it
into his hand. "Look at that!" she bade him, and turned away,
struggling with all her might to keep back the tears.
He read, his old face softening. "Josie Lockwood's party, eh? And she's
sent you an invitation. Well, that was kind of her, very kind."
She swung upon him in a fury. "No, it was not kind. It was mean... It
was mean!"
"Oh, Betty," he begged in consternation, "don't say that. I'm sure--"
"Oh, you don't know... I heard the girls talking in the post-office--
Angle Tuthill and Mame Garrison and Bessie Gabriel... I was round by
the boxes where they couldn't see me, but I could hear them, and they
were laughing because I was invited. They said the reason Josie did it
was because she knew I didn't have anything to wear, and she wanted to
hear what excuse I'd make for not going. Ah, I heard them!"
"Oh, but Betty, Betty," he pleaded; "don't you mind what they say.
Don't--"
"But I do mind; I can't help mindin'. They're mean." She paused, her
features hardening. "I'm going to that party," she declared tensely:
"I'm goin' to that party and--and I'm goin' to have a dress to go in,
too! I don't care what I do--I'm goin' to have that dress!"
Sam would have soothed her as best he might, but she would neither look
at nor come near him.
"We'll see," he said gently. "We'll see. I'll try--"
She turned on him, exasperated beyond thought. "That only means you
can't help me!"
"Oh, no, it doesn't. I'll do what I can--"
"Have you got any money now?"
He hung his head to avoid her blazing eyes. "Well, no--not at present,
but here's this new stock and--."
"That doesn't mean anything, and you know it. You owe that note to Mr.
Lockwood, don't you? And you can't pay it?"
"Not to-day, Betty, but he'll give me a little more time, I'm sure.
He's kind, very kind."
"You don't know him. He's as mean--as mean as dirt--as mean as Josie."
"Betty!"
"Then if you did get any money you'd have to give it to him, wouldn't
you?"
"Yes, but--I'm sure--I think it'll come all right."
"Ah, what's the use of talkin' that way? What's the use of talkin' at
all? I know you can't do anything for me, and so do you!"
Sam had dropped into his chair, unable to stand before this storm; he
stared now, mute with amazement, at this child who had so long, so
uncomplainingly, shared his poverty and privations, grown suddenly to
the stature of a woman--and a tormented, passionate woman, stung to the
quick by the injustice of her lot. He put out a hand in a feeble
gesture of placation, but she brushed it away as she bent toward him,
speaking so quickly that her words stumbled and ran into one another.
"I can't understand it!" she raged. "Why is it that I have to be more
shabby than any other girl in town? Why is it that the others have all
the fun and I all the drudgery? Why is it that I can't ever go anywhere
with the boys and girls and laugh and--and have a good time like the
rest do?..."
Sam bent his head to the blast. In his lap his hands worked nervously.
But he could not answer her.
"It ain't that I mind the cookin' and doin' the housework and--all the
rest--but--why is it you can never give me anything at all? Why must it
be that everyone looks down on us and sneers and laughs at us? Why is
it that half the time we haven't got enough to eat?... Other men manage
to take care of their families and give their children things to wear.
You've got only us two to look after, and you can't even do that. It
isn't right, it isn't decent, and if I were you I'd be ashamed of
myself--!"
Her temper had spent itself, and with this final cry she checked
abruptly, with a catch at her breath for shame of what she had let
herself say. But, childlike, she was not ready to own her sorrow; and
she turned her back, trembling.
Sam, too, was shaken. In his heart he knew there was justification for
her indictment, truth in what she had said. And he was heartbroken for
her. He got up unsteadily and put a gentle hand upon her shoulder.
"Why, Betty--I--I--"
A dry sob interrupted him. He pulled himself together and forced his
voice to a tone of confidence. "Just be a little patient, dear. I'm
sure things will be better with us, soon. Just a little more patience--
that's all... Why, there was a gentleman here this morning, from Noo
York City, talkin' about an invention of mine."
The girl moved restlessly, shaking off his hand. "Invention!" she
echoed bitterly. "Oh, father! Everybody knows they're no good. You've
been wastin' time on 'em ever since I can remember, and you've never
made a dollar out of one yet."
He bowed to the truth of this, then again braced up bravely. "But this
gentleman seemed quite interested. He's over to the Bigelow House now.
I think I'll step over and have a talk with him--"
"You'd much better go and have a talk with Blinky Lockwood," she told
him brutally. "He's waitin' for you at the bank, and said he wasn't
goin' to wait after twelve o'clock, neither!"
"Wel-l, perhaps you're right. I'll go there. It's after twelve, but..."
He started to get his hat and stopped with an exclamation: "Why, Nat!
I didn't know you'd got back!"
Duncan was at the back of the store, clearing the last remnants of the
old stock from the shelves. "Yes," he said pleasantly, without turning,
"I've been here some time, cleaning up the cellar, to make room for the
stuff that's coming in. I came upstairs just a moment ago, but you were
so busy talking you didn't notice me."
He paused, swept the empty shelves with a calculating glance, and came
out around the end of the counter. "Everything's in tip-top shape," he
said. "I checked up the bill of lading myself, and there's not a thing
missing, not a bit of breakage. Mr. Graham," he continued, dropping a
gentle hand on the old man's shoulder, "you're going to have the finest
drug-store in the State within six months. With the stuff that Sperry
has sent us we can make Sothern and Lee look like sixty-five cents on
the dollar.... We're going to make things hum in this old shop, and
don't you forget it." He laughed lightly, with a note of encouragement.
But he avoided Graham's eyes even as he did Betty's. He could not meet
the pitiful look of the former, any more than that stare of hostility
and defiance in the latter.
"It's good of you, my boy," Graham quavered. "I--but I'm afraid it
won't----"
"Now don't say that!" Duncan interposed firmly. "And don't let me
keep you. I think you said you were going out on business? And I'll be
busy enough right here."
And without exactly knowing how it had come about, Graham found himself
in the street, stumbling downtown, toward the bank.
When he had gone, Duncan would have returned to the shelves for a final
redding-up. He desired least of all things an encounter with Betty in
her present frame of mind, and he tried his level best to seem as one
who had heard nothing, who was only concerned with his occupation of
the moment. But from the instant that she had been made aware of his
presence Betty had been watching him with smouldering eyes, wondering
how much he had heard and what he was thinking of her. The keen
repentance that gnawed at her heart, allied with shame that an alien
should have been private to her exhibition, half maddened the child.
With a sudden movement she threw herself in front of Duncan, thrusting
her white, drawn face before his, her gaze searching his half in anger,
half in morose distrust.
"So you were listening!"
"I'm sorry," he said uncomfortably.
She drew a pace away, holding herself very straight while she threw him
a level glance of unqualified contempt.
"I didn't mean to hear anything," he argued plaintively. "I was in
the room before I understood, and by the time I did, it was too late--
you had finished."
"Oh, don't try to explain. I--I hate you!"
He held her eyes inquiringly. "Yes," he said in the tone of one who
solves a puzzling problem, "I believe you do."
She looked away, shaking with passion. "You just better believe it."
"But," he went on quietly, "you don't hate your father, too, do you,
Miss Graham?"
She swung back to meet his stare with one that flamed with indignation.
"What do you mean by that, Mr. Duncan?"
"I mean," he said, faltering in where one wiser would have feared to
venture--"I'm going to give you a bit of advice. Don't you talk to your
father again the way you did just now."
"What business is that of yours?"
"None," he admitted fairly. "But just the same I wouldn't, if I were
you."
"Well, you ain't me!" she cried savagely. "You ain't me! Understand
that? When I want advice from you, I'll ask for it. Until I do, you
let me alone."
"Very well," he replied, so calmly that she lost her bearings for a
moment. And inevitably this, emphasising as it did all that she
resented most in him--his education, wit, address, his advantages of
every sort--only served further to infuriate the child.
"Oh, I know why you talk that way," she said, rubbing her poor little
hands together.
"Do you?" he asked in wonder.
"Yes, I do--you!..."
Suddenly she found words--poverty-stricken words, it's true, but the
best she had wherewith to express herself. And for a little they flowed
from her lips, a scalding, scathing torrent. "It's because you go to
church all the time and try to look like a saint and--and try to make
out you're too religious for anything, and like to hear yourself givin'
Christian advice to poor miserable sinners--like me. You think that's
just too lovely of you. That's why you said it, if you want to know.
... Folks wonder what you're doing here, don't they? Guess you know
that--and like it, too. It makes 'em look at you and talk about you,
and that's what you like. _I_ could tell 'em. You're only here to
show off your good clothes and your finger-nails and the way you part
your hair and--and all the other things you do that nobody in Noo York
would pay any attention to!"
He faced her soberly, attentively. She was a little fool, he knew, and
making a ridiculous figure of herself. But--his innate honesty told him
--she was right, in a way; she had hit upon his weakest point. He was
in Radville to "show off," as she would have said, to make an
impression and ... to reap the reward thereof. The way she spoke was
ludicrous, but what she said was mostly plain truth. He nodded
submissively.
"A pretty good guess at that," he acknowledged candidly.
"Yes, it is, and I know it, and you know it. ... Oh, it's easy enough
to give advice when you've got plenty of money and fine clothes and ...
but..."
"I understand," he said when she paused to get a grip upon herself and
find again the words she needed. "You needn't say any more. The only
reason I said what I did was because I'm strong for your father and ...
well, I wanted to do you a good turn, too."
"I don't want any of your good turns!"
"Then I apologise."
"And I don't want your apologies, neither!"
"All right, only ... think over what I said, some time."
"I had a good reason for saying what I did."
"I know you had."
"You know I had!" She looked at him askance. She had been on the point
of relenting a little, of calming, of being a bit ashamed of herself.
But his quiet acquiescence rekindled her resentment. "How do you know?
You!" she said bitterly.
"Because I'm not what you think I am, altogether."
"I guess you're not," she observed acidly.
"But I don't mean what you mean. I mean you think I'm conceited and
rich and don't know what trouble is. Well, you're mistaken. I've been
up against it the worst way for five years, and I know just how it
feels to see other people getting up in the world when you're at the
bottom of the heap with no chance of squirming out--to know that they
have things you haven't got any chance of getting. I've been through
the mill myself. Why, I've kept out of the way for days and days rather
than let my prosperous friends see how shabby I was. Many's the time
I've dodged round corners to avoid meeting men I knew would invite me
to have dinner or luncheon or a drink--of soda--or something, for fear
they'd find out that I couldn't treat in return. Many a time I've gone
hungry for days and weeks and slept on park benches ... until an old
friend found me and took me home with him."
The ring of sincerity in his manner and tone silenced the girl,
impressed her with the conviction of his absolute sincerity. The tumult
in her mind quieted. She eyed him with attention, even with interest
temporarily untinged with resentment. And seeing that he had succeeded
in gaining this much ground in her regard, Duncan dared further,
pushing his advantage to its limits.
"But it's your father I wanted to talk about," he hurried on. "I'd bet
a lot he knows more than any other man in this town; and besides, he's
a fine, square, good-hearted old gentleman. Anybody can see that.
Only, he's got one terrible fault: he doesn't know how to make money.
And that's mighty tough on you--though it's just as tough on him. But
when you roast him for it, like you did just now ... you only make him
feel as miserable as a yellow dog ... and that doesn't help matters a
little bit. He can't change into a sharp business crook now; ... he's
too old a man. ... Before long he ... he won't be with you at all and
... when he's gone you'll be sore on yourself ... sure! ... if you keep
on throwing it into him the way I heard you. ... And that's on the
level."
He paused in confusion; the role of preacher sat upon him awkwardly, a
sadly misfit garment. He felt self-conscious and ill at ease, yet with
a trace of gratulation through it all. For he felt he'd carried his
point. He could see no longer any animus in the pale, wistful little
face that looked up into his--only sympathy, understanding, repentance
and (this troubled him a bit) a faint flush of dawning admiration.
Presently she grew conscious of herself again, and looked aside, humbled
and distressed.
"I--I won't do it again," she faltered, twisting her hands together.
"Bully for you!" he cried, and with an abrupt if artificial resumption
of his business-like air turned away to a show-case--to spare her the
embarrassment of his regard.
"I didn't think," said the voice behind him; "I didn't mean to--
something happened that almost drove me wild and..."
"I know," he said gently.
After a bit she spoke again: "I'll go up and get dinner ready now."
"That's all right," he returned absently. "I'll tend the store."
He heard her footsteps as she crossed to the door and opened it. There
followed a pause. Then she came hurriedly back. He faced about to meet
her eyes shining with wonder.
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