Rope

Chapter I

A S Henry came blithely into the house with a heavy suit-case in one hand and a cumbersome kit-bag in the other, his Aunt Mirabelle marched out like a grenadier from the living-room, and posted herself in the hallway to watch him approach. There was this much to say for Aunt Mirabelle: she was at least consistent, and for twenty years she had worn the same expression whenever she looked at him. During that period the rest of the world and Henry had altered, developed, advanced — but not Aunt Mirabelle. 'She had changed neither the style of her clothes nor the nature of her convictions ; she had disapproved of Henry when he was six, and therefore, she disapproved of him today. To let him know it, she regarded him precisely as though he 1

2 EOPE

were still six, and had forgotten to wash his face.

“I suppose,’ ’ remarked Aunt Mirabelle, in her most abrasive voice, “I suppose you’re waiting for me to say I hope you had a good time. Well, I’m not a-going to say it, because it wouldn’t be true, and I wouldn’t want to have it sitting on my conscience. Of course, some people haven’t got much of any conscience for anything to sit on, anyway. If they did, they’d be earnest, useful citizens. If they did, then once in a while they’d think about something else besides loud ties and silk socks and golf. And they wouldn’t be gallivanting off on houseparties for a week at a time, either; they’d be tending to their business — if they had any. And if they hadn’t, they ought to.”

Henry put down, the bag and the suit-case, removed his straw hat, and grinned, with a fair imitation of cheerfulness. He had never learned how to handle Aunt Mirabelle, and small wonder; for if he listened in silence, he was called sulky; if he disputed her, he was called flippant; if he agreed with her, she accused him of fraud; and if he obeyed his natural

ROPE instincts, and treated her with tolerant goodhumour, she usually went on a conversation strike, and never weakened until after the twelfth apology. Whatever he did was wrong, so that purely on speculation, he grinned, and said what came to his tongue.

“ Maybe so,” said Henry, “ maybe so, but conscience is a plant of slow growth,” and immediately after he had said this, he wished that he had chosen a different epigram — something which wasn’t so liable to come back at him, later, like a boomerang.

6 ‘ Humph!” said Aunt Mirabelle. “It is, is it? Well, if I was in your place, I’d be impatient for it to grow faster.”

Henry shook his head. “No, I don’t believe you would. I’ve read somewhere that impatience dries the blood more than age or sorrow.” He assumed an air of critical satisfaction. “The bird that wrote that had pretty good technique, don’t you think?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “All right, Henry. Be pert. But I know what made you so almighty anxious to sneak off on this houseparty; and I know whose account it was you

EOPE went on, too, and I don’t see for the life of me why your uncle hasn’t put his foot down.” She sighed, as though in deep mourning. “I did hope you’d grow up different from these other boys, Henry, but you’re all of you just alike. When you get old enough, do you pick out some pure, innocent, sensible, young woman that’s been trained the way girls were trained in my day? No. You go and make fools of yourselves over these short-skirted little hussies all powdered up like a box of marshmallows. And as long as they’re spry enough and immodest enough to do all these new bunny dances and what not, you think that’s a sure sign they’ll make good wives and mothers. Humph. Makes me sick/’

In spite of himself, Henry lost his artificial grin, and began to turn dull red. “I wouldn’t go quite so far as to say that.”

“Well,” retorted Aunt Mirabelle, “I didn’t hardly expect you would. But you’ll go far enough to see one of ’em, I notice. . . . Well, your uncle’s home this afternoon; long’s he’s paying your bills, you might have the grace to go in and say howdy-you-do to him.” She

EOPE marched upstairs, and Henry, revolving his hat in his hand, gazed after her until she was out of sight. He stood, irresolute, until the echo of her common-sense shoes died into silence; and as he lingered, he was struck for the ten thousandth time by the amazing mystery of the human family.

First, there was his mother, a small and exquisite woman with music in her heart and in the tips of her fingers ; his memory of her was dim, but he knew that she had been the maddest and the merriest of all possible mothers — a creature of joy and sunshine and the sheer happiness of existence. And then her sister Mirabelle, who found life such a serious condition to be in, and loved nothing about it, save the task of reforming it for other people whether the other people liked it or not. And finally, her brother John, bald, fat, and good-natured; a man whose personal interests were bounded by his own physical comfort, and by his desire to see everyone else equally comfortable. Whenever Henry thought of this trio, he reflected that his grandparents must have been very versatile.

ROPE

He drew a long breath, and glanced up the stairway, as though the spirit of his Aunt Mirabelle were still haunting him; then, with a depressing recollection of what she had said about his conscience, and with hot resentment at what she said about his taste, he walked slowly into the library.

His uncle John Starkweather, who had been writing at a big desk between the windows, sprang up to shake hands with him. 1 ‘ Hello, boy! Thought Bob Standish must have kidnapped you. Have a good party? ”

‘ ‘ Fine, thanks, ’ 1 said Henry, but his tone was so subdued and joyless that his uncle stared at him for a moment, and then went over to close the door. Standing with his back to it, Mr. Starkweather smiled reminiscently and a trifle ruefully, and began to peel the band from a cigar. “What’s the matter? Mirabelle say anything to you?”

“Why — nothing special.”

His uncle hesitated. “In a good many ways,” he said, lowering his voice, “Mirabelle puts me in mind of my father. When he was a boy, out in the country, he ’d had to smash the

ROPE ice in the water-pitcher every morning and he was proud of it — thought a boy that hadn’t earned some of his godliness with an ice-pick was a dude. Thought what was good enough for his father was good enough for him , and sometimes it was too good. Didn’t believe in modern improvements like telephones and easy chairs and three-tined forks ; didn’t believe in labour-savin’ devices because labour wasn’t meant to be saved. Bible says for us to work six days a week, and if he ever had any spare time before Sat ’day night, he figured he must have forgot somethin’. Business — well, he called advertisin’ a rich man’s luxury, and said an audit was an insult to his partners. Said he’d welcome a sheriff sooner ’n he would an expert accountant — and in the long run, that’s exactly what he did . Involuntary bankruptcy — found his sanctimonious old cashier’d been sanctimoniously lootin’ the till for eighteen years.” He paused, and eyed his cigar. “Well, Mirabelle’s cut more or less off the same piece. Lord, I wish she could go through some kind of bankruptcy, if ’t would shake her up like it did father.”

ROPE

“It — shook him up, did it!” inquired Henry, fidgetting.

“Well,” said his uncle, “after the crash, I don’t recollect he ever mentioned the good old times again except once ; and that was to praise the good old habit of takin’ defaulters and boilin’ ’em in oil. No, sir, he wouldn’t so much as add two and two together without an addin’ machine, and he used to make an inventory of his shirts and winter flannels pretty near every week. And Mirabelle’s the same way; she’s still tryin’ to live under the 1874 rules.” He came back to his desk, and sat down thoughtfully. “Well, she’s been talkin’ to me ever since you went off on this party and as far’s most of it’s concerned, I’m not on her side, and I’m not on your side; I’m sort of betwixt and between.” He looked sidewise at Henry, and discovered that Henry was peering off into space, and smiling as though he saw a vision in the clouds. “Just as man to man, just for the information; suppose you passed up everything I’ve said to you, and went and got married one of these days — did you expect I’d go on supportin’ you?”

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Henry came down to earth, and his expression showed that he had landed heavily. “Why— what was that?”

His uncle repeated it, with a postscript. 6 1 Oh, I Ve always told you you could have anything you wanted within reason that I could pay for. But from what I been told” — his eyes twinkled — “wives ain’t always reasonable. And it does seem to me that when a young man gets to be twenty five or six, and never did a lick of work in his life, and loafs around clubs and plays polo just because he’s got a rich uncle, why, it ’s a sort of a reflection on both of ’em. Seem so to you?”

Henry glanced up nervously and down again. “To tell the truth, I hadn’t thought much about it.”

“Say,” said his uncle, confidentially. “Neither had I. Not ’till Mirabelle told me you went off on this party because Anna Barklay was goin’ to be there. . . . Now I had pretty hard sleddin’ when I was your age; I’ve kind of liked to see you enjoy yourself. But Mirabelle — Now I said before, I ain’t on her side, and I ain’t on your side; I had the thing

ROPE out with you once or twice ‘already, and I guess you know what my angles are. Only if Mirabelled got any grounds, maybe I ought to say it over again. . . . You been out of college four years now, and you tried the automobile business for two months and the bond business for two* weeks and the real-estate business for two minutes, and there you quit. You spent five, six thousand a year and that was all right, but I admit I don’t like the idea of your gettin’ married on nothin’ but prospects, specially when 7’m all the prospects there is. Sound fair to you?”

Henry nodded, with much repression, “You couldn’t be unfair if you tried, Uncle John.”

“Well, you was always open to reason, even when you' was in kindergarten. . . . Now, in some ways I don’t approve of you any more’n Mirabelle does, but she wants me to go too blamed far. She wants me to turn you loose the way my father did me. She wants me to say if you should ever marry without my consent I’ll cut you out of my will. But that’s old stuff. That’s cold turkey. Mirabelle don’t

ROPE know times have changed — she’s so busy with that cus-sed Reform League of hers, she don’t have time to reform any of her own slants about things.” He rolled his cigar under his tongue.

“Well, I’m goin’ to compromise. Before you get involved too deep, I want you to know what ’s in my mind. I don ’t believe it ’s the best thing for either of us for me to go on bein’ a kind of an evergreen money-bush. And a man that’s earnin’ his own livin’ don’t have to ask odds of anybody. Don’t you think you better bundle up your courage and get to work, Henry?”

Henry was twiddling his watch-chain. “It hasn’t been a matter of courage , exactly — ”

“Oh, I know that. I don’t believe you’re scared of work; you’re only sort of shy about it. I never saw you really afraid of more’n three things — bein’ a spoil-sport, or out of style, or havin’ a waiter think you’re stingy. No, you ain’t afraid of work, but you never been properly introduced, so you’re kind of standoffish about it. I’ve always kind of hoped you’d take a tip from Bob Standish — there 9 s

ROPE one of your own breed that knows where the durable satisfactions of life are. Just as good family’s yours.; just as much money; just as fond of games; — and workin’ like a prize pup in my office and makin’ good. He’ 11 tell you. . . . But if you go get married, boy, be- 'fore you show you could take care of yourself, and what money I might leave you — oh, I don ’t say you got to put over any miracle, but I do say you got to learn the value of money first. You’d do that by earnin’ some. If you don’t, then you and me’d have a quarrel. Sound logical to you?”

Henry was frowning a little, and sitting nearer to the edge of his chair. “Too darned logical,” he said.

His uncle surveyed him with great indulgence. “What’s the idea?” he asked, humourously. “You ain’t gone oft and got yourself married already, have you?”

Henry stood up, and squared his shoulders, and looked straight into his uncle’s eyes. His voice was strained, but at the same time it held a faint note of relief, as if he had contained his

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secret too long for his own nerves. “Yes, Uncle John. . .

And waited, as before the Court of last appeal.

Chapter II

T HE older man sat limp in his chair, and stared until the ash of his cigar tumbled, untidily, over his waistcoat. He brushed at it with uncertain, ineffective motions, but his eyes never left his nephew. He put the cigar once more to his lips, shuddered, and flung it away.

“Boy — ” he said, at length, “Boy — is that true?”

Henry cleared his throat. “Yes, Uncle John.”

“Who is it? Anna Barklay?”

“Yes, Uncle John.”

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Does — Judge Barklay know it yet?”

“No, not yet. He’s out of town.”

His uncle drew a tremendous breath, and pulled himself upright. “ Boy, ” he said, ‘ ‘ why in the hell did you ever go and do a thing like that ? . . . Haven ’t I been pretty decent to you,

EOPE the best I knew how? . . . Why’d you ever go, and — have I been mistaken in you all this while? Why, boy, I thought you and me were friends

There was another heavy silence. “I don’t know. It just happened. The way things do — sometimes. We’ve always been crazy about each other.”

Mr. Starkweather was looking at and through his nephew, who was man-grown and presumably a rational human being; but what Mr. Starkweather actually saw was the vision of a little boy dressed in Lord Fauntleroy velvet, with silver knee-buckles and a lace collar; and much as a drowning man is supposed to review, in a lightning flash, every incident of his whole life, so was Mr. Starkweather reviewing the life of Henry, beginning with the era of black velvet, and ending with the immediate present. That history was a continuous record of dashing impulses, and the gayest irresponsibility; and yet, when the time came for an accounting, Henry had offered only explanations, and never excuses. In his glorious pursuit of the calendar, he had paid his penalties as royally as he had earned them; and even now, when he

EOPE was confessed of the most impetuous and the most astounding act of all his unballasted youth, he had nothing to say in defence. As a climax, marriage had “happened” to him, and he was braced for whatever might happen next.

Presently, Mr. Starkweather, coming out of his daze, began to wonder if, by this very climax, Henry hadn’t prescribed his own medicine, and at the same time taken out insurance on his own salvation. For one thing, he had selected the right girl — a girl with no money, and plenty of character — a girl who would manage him so skilfully that Henry would think himself the manager. For another thing, Mr. Starkweather believed that Henry was profoundly in love with her, even though he tried to conceal his seriousness by spreading it with a generous helping of light manner, and modem vocabulary. These facts, together with Mr. Starkweather’s control of the finances, might possibly operate as the twin levers which would pry Henry out of his improvidence. The levers themselves were certainly strong enough; it was a question only of Henry’s resistance. Mr. Starkweather winced to realize

ROPE that by the time the minute-hand of his watch had gone twice again around the dial, he should know definitely and permanently whether Henry was worth his powder, or not.

He leaned his elbows on his desk, judicially. “Pm pretty much knocked edgeways, Henry — but tell me one more thing; this wasn’t any bet, was it, or — ”

“Bet!” flared Henry, and all the youth went out of his features.

“Yes. Nobody dared you to go and get married — it wasn’t any kind of a put-up job, was it?”

The younger man was righteously indignant. “Uncle John, I admit I haven’t won any medals for — for some things, — and maybe you think I am the kind of bird that would — do this on a bet, or a dare — and if you do think that — I guess we’re both mistaken in each other!”

His uncle’s hand went up. “Hold your horses! You’ve answered the question. If you hadn’t got mad, I’d have thrown you out the window. Why did you do it, then? ... No — never mind.” He looked away. “7 know. Spring, and impulse and no emergency brakes.

EOPE

1 know. . . He looked back at Henry, and smiled oddly. ‘ ‘And I was just goin’ to tell you, before you sprung it on me, that if you cared two cents about that girl, — and me, too, — you ’d want to deserve her- — do somethin ’ besides be a model to hang expensive clothes on.”

“Yes,” said Henry, also judicial. “I guess I ’m entitled to that wallop. ’ ’

His uncle nodded. “That one and quite a few more. Still, you. never heard anybody accuse me of not bein , a good sport, did you?”

•“No, Uncle John. I counted on it.”

“Who knows this — besides us?”

“Just Bob Standish. We took him along for a witness.”

“ So ! Bob Standish ! Hm. I ’d have thought Bob’d had sense enough to try to stop it. I’ll have words with him. ”

“He did try.”

Mr. Starkweather rose. “Where’s Anna?”

‘ ‘Out in the car. With Bob. ’ ’

His uncle froze. “Out there? Waitin’ there all this time ? For Heaven’s sake, Henry, she’ll be in a conniption fit ! You go bring her in here — and tell her to stop worryin’. I’m

ROPE sore as the devil, and I'm goin' to make an example out of you, but that ain't any reason to act like a grouch, is it? Sound sensible to you? Bring her in here. Not Bob — I'll see him afterwards."

She was small and intensely feminine, but there was nothing fragile about her, and no slightest hint of helplessness. She was pretty enough, too, and her attractions were more than skin-deep ; to the qualities which showed in her eyes — sincerity and humour and imagination — there was also to be added sweetness of disposition and sensitiveness, which were proved by the curves of her mouth; and finally, there was quiet determination, stopping just short of stubbornness, which was evident in the moulding of her strong little chin.

She came in slowly, questioningly, not in fear, but merely poised so as to adjust herself to any style of reception. Mr. Starkweather met her eyes and laughed — a fat, spontaneous, understanding laugh — and blushing furiously, she

ROPE ran to him, with both her hands outstretched.

“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Starkweather, and interrupted himself long enough to kiss her, “I’ll say Henry’s got a darned sight better judgment ’n you have. ... Go on and blush. Make a good job of it. Ashamed of yourself? So’m I. Sit down there and cringe. You too, Henry.” He himself remained on his feet. ‘ ‘ Funny thing, ’ ’ he said, after a pause. ‘ ‘ Only chance I ever had to get married myself was somethin’ like this is — oh, I wasn’t a gilt loafer, like Henry is; I was workin’ sixteen hours a day, but I wasn’t makin’ money enough. Both our fathers said so. And she’d have run off, but I wouldn ’t. Thought it wasn ’t respectable, I guess. Anyhow, it kind of petered out, and I lost my nerve. Wish to thunder I’d taken a chance when I had it. Worth it, sometimes.” He whirled on Henry, abruptly. “Well, you took your chance. Now let’s see if you think it’s worth it. If you’re figurin’ on any help from me, you got to work for it first. If you’d waited, I’d kind of made things easy for you. Now, I’m goin’ to hand you the meanest job I can think of. It won’t be an insult and it won’t

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be a joke, but maybe you’ll take it for both — until you learn better . 9 9

“What is it, Uncle John?”

“I’ll tell you when you get back from your honeymoon. ’ ’

The two young people stared at each other, and at Mr. Starkweather. “From our — what ? ’ ’ asked the girl, incredulously.

“Honeymoon. Oh, you made a couple of prize fools of yourselves, and if I did what I ought to, I’d cut Henry off sharp this minute. But — guess I better make a fool of ww/self, so you’ll feel more at home.” He coughed explosively. “Besides, you’re awful young, both of you — and damn it, if you don’t cash in on it now, next thing you know you’ll be wonderin’ where the time’s gone, anyway. No sense in robbin’ you of the best months of your life, just because you hadn’t sense enough to rob yourselves of it — is there? Oh, I suppose I’m a kind of a sentimental cuss, but — must be I like the feelin’ of it.” He jerked his head toward Henry. “This is April. Take her off somewhere — Italy? South of France? — ’till next August. Then you report back here, all fixed

22 E 0 P E

and ready to eat crow. Sound fair to you?”

The girl rose, and crossed the room to him. ‘ ‘ Mr. Starkweather — ”

“Name’s Uncle John,” he corrected. “You married it.”

“Uncle John — I — I don’t know how to — ” She bit her lip, and he saw the depths of her eyes, and saw that they were filling with tears. She gestured imperatively to Henry. “You know him better — you tell him. ’ ’

Henry had sprung across to join them. “Uncle John, you’re a peach! I’ll break rock on the streets if you say so! You’re a peach!”

“Well,” said Mr. Starkweather, uncomfortably. “If everybody else’s goin’ to bawl, I guess it’ll have to be contagious. . . . Only when you get back, you’re both goin’ to pay the piper. I’m goin’ to make Henry earn his salt, whether he’s got it in him or not; I’m goin’ to make him crawl. That goes as it stands, too; no foolin’. . . . Look here, don’t you want me to break it to the Judge? Guess I better. I can put it up to him in writin ’ twice as good as Henry put it up to me by talkin’, anyhow. . . . And I’ll put an announcement in the

ROPE

Herald that ’ll take the cuss oft. Anna, you hustle up some engraved notices to get around to all our friends. You know what’s in style. . . . Oh, you’re a couple of champion idiots, and Henry’s goin’ to sweat for it when he comes home, but — God bless you, my boy, and you too, my dear — only how in blazes am I goin’ to get it across to Mirabelle? That’s what bites me the worst, Henry; that’s what bites me the worst!”

CHAPTEB III

I N a small office on the third floor of the City Bank Building Mr. Theodore Mix, broker and amateur politician, sat moodily intent upon Tiis morning newspaper. For thirty years (he was fifty-five) Mr. Mix had been a prominent and a mildly influential citizen, and by great effort he had managed to keep himself excessively overrated. A few years ago he had even been mentioned as a candidate for Mayor, and the ambition was still alive within him, although fulfilment was never so distant. But despite his appearance, which was dignified, and despite his manner, which would have done for the diplomatic corps, and despite his connection with local charities and churches and civic committees, Mr. Mix was secretly a bit of a bounder; and although the past decade or two he had made a handsome income, he had contrived to get rid of it as fast as he con-

ROPE 25

veniently could, and by methods which wouldn ’t always have stood analysis.

Lately, for no apparent cause, his best customers had edged away from him ; he was gliding rapidly into debt, and he knew that unless he clambered out again within six or eight w r eeks, he should have considerable difficulty in preserving his reputation, both financial and ethical. And like all men in the same position, Mr. Mix was fiercely jealous of his prestige; by long practice he had warped himself into thinking that it belonged to him; and he was ready to defend it with every conceivable weapon.

For the moment, however, Mr. Mix was querulous rather than defensive. He was trying to place the blame for the past two seasons of misfortune, and when he observed that Pacific Refining was twelve points up from Saturday’s close, he sighed wearily and told himself that it was all a matter of luck. He had had an appointment, last Saturday at nine o’clock, with his friend John Starkweather, and he had meant to borrow something from him, if

ROPE possible, and to risk a few hundred shares of Pacific Refining on margin; but he had overslept, and Mr. Starkweather had left his office at nine fifteen and hadn’t come back again that day, so that the profit which might so easily have come to rest in Mr. Mix’s pockets was now in other quarters.

Luck! The most intangible of assets and the most unescapable of liabilities. On Saturday, Mr. Mix had arrived too late because he had overslept because his alarm-clock had been tinkered by a watchmaker who had inherited a taste for alcohol from a parent who had been ruined by the Chicago fire — and almost before he knew it, Mr. Mix had trailed the blame to Adam and Eve, and was feeling personally resentful. It was plain to him that his failure wasn ’t in any sense his own fault.

As he resumed his paper, however, his querulousness yielded to a broad sunny optimism, and he turned to the sporting page and hunted out the news from the Bowie track. He had a friend at Bowie, and the friend owned a horse which he swore was the darkest threeyear-old in captivity; he had wired Mr. Mix to

HOPE hypothecate his shirt, and bet the proceeds on the fourth race, this coming Saturday. The odds would be at least 10 to 1, he said, and he could place all the money that Mr. Mix might send him.

Mr. Mix leaned back and built a stable in the air. Suppose he could borrow a couple of thousand. Twenty thousand clear profit. Then a quick dash into the cotton-market (the price was certainly going to break wide open in another month) and the twenty would unfold, and expand, and become fifty. And if a shrewd, coldblooded man went down to Wall Street with fifty thousand dollars, and played close to his chest, he ought to double his capital in four months. To be sure, Mr. Mix had been losing steadily for a dozen years, but he was confident that he had it in him to be a great and successful plunger. He felt it. Heretofore, he had been handicapped by operating on a shoestring; but with fifty thousand dollars to put his back against —

His stenographer announced a caller, and on the instant, Mr. Mix, put on his other personality, and prepared to silver his tongue.

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The caller, however, came straight to Mr. Mix’s desk, and flipped out one sheet from a large portfolio. “Say,” he remarked brusquely. “What’s the matter with this bill! Ziegler and Company. Two ninety two sixty — dated November. ”

Mr. Mix laughed genially, and offered a cigar. “Why, nothing’s the matter with it. “What’s the matter with Ziegler and Company! Aren’t they solvent!”