The Man in the Twilight by Ridgwell Cullum

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He returned to his desk and flung himself into the chair. And after a
while his mind settled itself to the task his mood demanded. He sat
staring straight ahead of him, and presently the heat passed out of his
eyes, and they grew cold, and hard. Later, they began to smile
again--but it was a smile of cruelty, of evil purpose. It was a smile
more unrelenting in its cruelty than any frown could have expressed.

* * * * *

For the first time Nancy's eyes were open to the things of life as they
really were. She had tasted a certain bitterness in the early days of
her girlhood. But up till now the world had seemed something of a rose
garden in which it was a delight to labour. Up till now she had seen no
reverse to the picture of life as youth had painted it for her. Now,
however, it was borne in upon her that there was a reverse, a reverse
that was ugly and painfully distressing. It was this declaration of war
between her own people and the man from Labrador.

She lay in her bed that night thinking, thinking, and without any desire
for sleep. Strive as she would to search the position out logically, to
estimate the true meaning of it all, to fathom the chances of this war,
and to grasp the necessity for it, all these efforts only resulted in a
tangle of thought revolving about the picture of a youthful man of vast
stature, with eyes that were always clear-searching or smiling, and with
a head of hair that reminded her of a lion's mane. And as she gazed
upon this mental picture there were moments when it seemed to her there
was grave trouble in the clear depths which so appealed to her. The
smile in her eyes seemed to fade out, to be replaced by a look that
seemed to express the hurtful knowledge of a man disheartened, defeated,
crushed. They were in rival camps. They were at war. Each desired
victory. And yet the sight she beheld, the signs of defeat she
discovered in the man's eyes gave her no joy, no satisfaction.

She felt that the battle could end only one way. The might of the
Skandinavia was too great for anything but its complete victory. She was
sure, quite sure. Oh, yes. And she knew she would not have it otherwise.
But the pity of it. This creature of splendid manhood. To think that he
must go down--smashed. That was the word they used--smashed.

How she hated the word. The big soul of him with his ready kindliness.
Oh, it was a pity. It was a distracting thought. And why should it be?
For the life of her she could see no need. A little yielding on his
part. Just a shade less iron stubbornness. The whole thing could have
been avoided she was sure. The olive branch had been held out by the
Skandinavia. But he had deliberately refused it.

No. He had made himself their enemy. Then surely there could be no
complaint at the disaster that would overtake him. He was clearly to
blame. So why let the contemplation of it distract her?

She strove a hundred times to dismiss the whole thing from her mind. She
courted sleep in every conceivable way. But it was all useless. The
man's fine eyes and great body haunted her. They pursued her to her last
waking thought. And, at last, she fell asleep, thinking of the strong
supporting arms that had held her safe from the fury of Atlantic waves.

CHAPTER XIV

THE PLANNING OF CAMPAIGN

Nathaniel Hellbeam sat ominously calm and unruffled while Elas Peterman
told of his meeting with Bull Sternford. He gave no sign whatever. There
was just the flicker of a smile of appreciation of Bull's effrontery
when he heard of his response to Peterman's invitation to sell. That
alone of the whole story seemed to afford him interest. For the rest, it
had only been the sort of thing he expected.

He waited until the other had finished. Then he stirred in his chair. It
was an expression of relief that his long, silent sitting had ended.

"So," he said. "We do not buy him. No. We smash him."

There was obvious satisfaction that the more peaceful process was to be
set aside.

He sat blinking at his subordinate in the fashion of a man who is
thinking hard, and has no interest in the object upon which he is
gazing.

"It is as I think--all the time," he said at last. "That is all right. I
make no cry out. It is easy to fight. I would fight always with an
enemy. It is good. Now my friend, you have acted so. You bring the man
from Sachigo to tell you to go to hell. Eh? Well you have thought much?
You have planned for the fight? How is it you make this fight?"

Elas was standing before the desk. He had, yielded his place to this man
who was master of the Skandinavia. Now he looked down at the
square-headed creature with his gross, squat body. It was a figure and
face bristling with venom and purpose; and somehow he was conscious of a
sudden lack of his usual assurance.

"Oh, yes," he replied thoughtfully. "I've planned--sure. But I guess
I'm in the dark a bit. It's going to cost a deal. It's not going to be
easy. You were ready to buy. It was not necessarily to be the
Skandinavia who bought. Well, are you--going to vote the credit for this
fight?" He smiled uncertainly. "And to what extent?"

"The limit. Go on."

Peterman nodded.

"There's no commercial enterprise that can stand idleness. His work must
stop. His--"

"That is the A.B.C. of it."

There was sharp impatience in the financier's biting tone.

"Just so. It is the A.B.C. of it."

Hellbeam set back in his chair. He clasped his hands across his stomach.

"I will tell you," he said, a wicked smile lighting his deep-set eyes,
his cheeks rounding themselves in his satisfaction. "His work will stop.
His mill is far away. There is no protection from attack except that
which he can set up himself. He is going away. He will have eighteen
hundred miles of water between him and his mill. It should be easy with
a good plan and all the money. Listen.

"His work must stop. How? There are ways. His mill may burn. His forests
may burn. His men may revolt. They may refuse to work for him. All, or
any of these things may serve. There are men at all times ready to carry
out these things. You can tell them, or you need not, the way they must
act." He shook his head. "You say to them his work must stop; and you
pay them more than he can pay them. So his work will stop. That is so?
Yes? Very well. There is ha'f a million dollars that will pay for his
work to stop. I say that."

Peterman was startled. He had not been prepared for so sweeping a
proposal. He had understood that the man had been prepared to stand at
almost nothing in his desire to achieve some end, the nature of which
still remained somewhat obscure to him. For all his own lack of scruple
in his dealings with those who offended, the calm, fiendish purpose of
this man shocked him not a little.

He took the chair usually occupied by his visitors.

"You will pay ha'f a million dollars for this thing?" he demanded, to
re-assure himself.

Self-satisfaction looked out of the eyes of the man behind the desk.

"More--if necessary."

"By God! You must hate this boy, Sternford."

Peterman's feelings had broken from under his control.

"Sternford? Psha! It is not Sternford. No."

The smile had gone from Hellbeam's eyes. They were fiercely burning.
They were the hot, passionate eyes of a man obsessed, of a man possessed
of a monomania. Peterman, watching, beheld the sudden change in him. He
shrank before the insanity he had so deeply probed.

Hellbeam sat forward in his chair. His forearms were resting on the
desk, and his hands were clenched so that the finger-nails almost cut
into the flesh of their palms. His massive face was flushed, and the
coarse veins at his temples stood out like cords.

"Here, I tell you," he cried gutturally, returning in his fury to the
native Teuton in him. "Can you hate--yes? Have you known hate? Eh? No.
You the white liver have. You cannot hate. It is not in you. Oh, no. It
is for me. Yes. It has been so for years. And I tell you it is the only
thing in life. Woman? No. I have known them. They mean little. They are
a pleasure that passes. Money? What is it when you play the market as
you choose? The day comes when you can help yourself. And you no longer
desire so to do. Hate? That lives. That feeds on body and brain. That
consumes till there is only a dead carcase left. Ah! Hate is for the
lifetime. It can leave all those others as nothing. In it there is joy,
despair, all the time, every hour of life."

He held up one hand and opened his fingers. Then he slowly closed them
with a curious expressive movement of ruthless destruction.

"You hate and you think. You see your vengeance in operation. You see
him there in your hand; and you see the blood sweat as you squeeze and
crush out the life that has offended. Man, it is a joy that never leaves
you till you accomplish this thing. Then, after, you have the memory.
And while you think, even though he is dead, smashed in your grip, he
still suffers as you think. Oh, yes."

"And you hate--that way?"

A feeling of sudden fear had taken possession of Peterman. This gross,
squat man had become something terrible to him.

"Ja!"

The Teuton leapt in the furious emphasis hurled.

"Oh, ja! I hate. I tell you of it."

The man with the insane eyes picked up a pen. He turned it about in his
fingers. Then, suddenly, but slowly, the fingers began to break it. The
wood split under their pressure, and the pieces littered the table. He
gazed at them for a moment. Then one hand clenched and came down with a
crash on the blotting pad. Then he sat back in his chair again, with his
cruel eyes gazing straight out at the window opposite.

"It is years now. Oh, yes." A deep breath escaped from between the man's
coarse lips. "I ruled the markets. I ruled them so that they obeyed me.
I was the money power of this continent. I did as I chose. So I thought.
Then he came. This man. He did not disturb me. Oh, no. I slept good all
the time. Then I woke. I woke to find I was beaten of ten million
dollars; and that Wall Street, the markets of the world, were laughing
that this schoolmaster, this fool Scotsman from over the water, had
picked my pocket while I slept. It was not the money. It was the laugh.
And he got away. Oh, yes. I tell it now. The market knew of it then.
They laughed. How they laughed. So I sat and thought. I had all. There
was nothing more to have. And then I learned to hate."

The narrowed eyes came back to the face of the man beside the desk.
There was a sharp intake of breath.

"This mill, this Sachigo, was built out of my money. And the man who
built it was the man who robbed me while I slept."

A world of fierce bitterness lay in the final words, and the man
listening realised the enormity of the offence, as this man saw it. But
he was left puzzled.

"But you would have--bought this Sachigo?" he said, said.

Hellbeam's eyes were again turned to the window.

"Oh, yes," he said. "I would have bought. It would bring me to meet this
man. It is that I ask. That only. My hands would close upon him. And I
would see the blood sweat of his heart ooze under them."

Hellbeam had finished. Peterman understood that. The passion had passed
out of his eyes and the veins of his forehead were no longer distended.
He remained gazing at the window.

For some moments the younger man made no attempt to intrude further. He
had little desire to, anyway. Without scruple himself, he still found
little pleasure in probing the heart of this man, who was so powerful in
his own destiny. That which he had witnessed had served only to show him
the delicacy of his own position. He knew that the story had been told
for one reason only. It was to convince him, for the sake of his own
wellbeing in the Skandinavia, that he must make no mistake in the
warfare he must wage against the people of Sachigo. It was for him to
wage the battle with every faculty that was in him; and any failure of
his would mean disaster for himself. This was no commercial warfare. It
was the insane purpose of a monomaniac.

In those silent moments Elas Peterman thought with a rapidity inspired
by the urgency he felt to be driving him. And the fertility of his
imagination served him unfailingly. Oh yes. Necessity was driving. But
so, too, was his own personal feelings. He saw in the position that this
man had revealed an advantage to himself he had never looked for. With
the necessary money forthcoming, and no directors to concern himself
with, literally a free hand, he could employ a power which, in these
days of unrest and hatred between capital and labour, would be well-nigh
overwhelming. The morality of it, the ultimate consequence of it
mattered nothing. The smashing of Sachigo would mean the smashing of
Bull Sternford. And he saw a way whereby the smashing of Bull Sternford
could be achieved through--

His mind focused itself, as it was bound to do, upon this thing as it
affected his own desires. He, too, was a passionate hater, for all
Hellbeam's denial. His thought leapt at once to Nancy McDonald and the
man who had thrust himself between him and his desires. Whatever insane
hatred lay behind Hellbeam's purpose, it was not one whit more insensate
than Elas Peterman's feelings against the man who had come down from
Sachigo at Nancy's bidding.

Suddenly he looked up and glanced at the man occupying the chair that
was his. Hellbeam was still gazing at the window, pre-occupied with his
own thoughts.

"You can leave this thing in my hands, sir," he said. "Our organisation
has been working steadily to undermine the Sachigo people for months
past. That has always been part of our policy. I'd say the whole
thing's going to fit very well. You say, if necessary, you'll find half
a million dollars for the business. We shan't need a tithe of that.
However, it's well to know it. And none of it needs to worry our
directors. I'll set about it right away--in my own fashion--and I'll
promise you a quick result. We'll smash these folk all right. But how
it's to hand you the man you need I'm not wise--"

"No." Hellbeam's eyes were certainly derisive as they turned back from
the window. "This man, Martin, will show himself when he sees
the--destruction. My people will do the rest."

"Unless he leaves it--to Sternford. They tell us this man would as soon
fight as laugh. That's how Miss McDonald said the missionary, Father
Adam, told her."

"Father Adam?" The derision in the financier's eyes had deepened.
"That's the man that other fool talks of."

Peterman shrugged. The sting in the financier's words stirred him to
resentment.

"I don't know about that. Anyway--"

"How is it you say? Get busy. Yes."

Hellbeam rose stiffly from his seat and picked up his hat. He was quite
untouched by the other's change of tone.

"Do it how you please. Break that mill. I care nothing for the means.
Smash 'em, and leave the rest to me. And when you that have done you can
do the thing you please. You will have my good will. I say that. Now I
go."

* * * * *

Peterman picked up the 'phone the moment the door had closed behind the
one man in all the world he really feared, and at the other end of it
Nancy took the message summoning her to his presence. The man spoke with
unusual urgency. But his tone was pleasant, and more than conciliatory.
He wanted her at once. She could leave her reports. She could leave
everything. He had some news for her of the pleasantest nature. Oh, yes.
He had determined big things for her. She had earned them all. But a
thing had happened whereby there need be no limit to her advancement if
she would take the chance of a big work offered her. Would she kindly
come up right away.

Nancy listened to this message with a stirring of heart. What was the
great work that was to place no limit on her advancement? It was a
feeling rather than a thought. For a moment she stood in her
glass-partitioned office after she had received the message and a smile
of great happiness lit her eyes.

She was desperately earnest with a singleness of purpose which had in it
something of the recklessness of the father before her. She was a child
in all else. A wide vision of achievement was spread out before her. She
could see nothing beyond. She could see nothing to give her pause,
nothing even to bestir a belated caution. So she left her office for the
interview Peterman had demanded without suspicion, and with a heart and
mind ready to plunge her headlong into any labours which the Skandinavia
demanded of her.

She had completely forgotten, in that moment of exultation, the squarely
military figure that had passed down the dining-room of the Chateau, and
the coldly unsmiling eyes with which it had regarded her as she sat with
her companion over their memorable meal.

CHAPTER XV

THE SAILING OF THE _Empress_

Bull Sternford was reading over the telegram he had just written. Its
phraseology was curious. But it expressed the things he wanted to say,
and he knew it would be understood by the man to whom it was addressed.

"HARKER, SACHIGO, LABRADOR.

"Sailing to-morrow. War. Pass mill through hair sieve. Clear all
refuse. Watch fireguard. Look around. Plums otherwise ripe.
Return earliest date.

"BULL."

He smiled as he looked up from his reading. An acquaintance passed
through the hall of the hotel. He nodded to him. Then the smile died out
of his eyes, and it was like the passing of a gleam of sunshine. He
passed the message across the counter to the attendant and paid for it.

War! It was only an added development in the course of the ceaseless
work of life. The thought of it disturbed him not one whit. It was the
element in which he thrived. But for all that his mood had lost much of
its usual equanimity.

For two weeks he had applied himself assiduously to the work upon which
he was engaged. He had travelled hundreds of miles to the other capital
cities of the country in pursuit of his affairs. He had worked in that
express fashion which was characteristic of him. But under it all,
through it all, a depressing disappointment hung like a shadow over
every successful effort he put forth. The memory of an evening at the
Chateau haunted him. The vision of smiling hazel eyes and a radiant
crowning of vivid hair filled every moment of his waking dreaming. He
had not seen or heard of Nancy McDonald since that first night in
Quebec.

To-morrow he sailed for England. The thought of it afforded him none of
the satisfaction with which he had always looked forward to that
journey. Yet it meant no less to him now. On the contrary. It really
meant more. It meant that his work was marching forward to the great
completion which was to crown his labours, and the work of those others
who had conceived the task.

It should have been a wonderful moment for him. The house of Leader and
Company of London had thrown its doors open to him in welcome. Sir Frank
Leader with his millions, his shipping, his great power, and the
confidence which his name inspired in British commercial circles, would
not fail. The prospect lying ahead, for all the threatened war, should
have stirred him to a keen enthusiasm that achievement was within his
grasp. But none of these emotions were stirring.

He felt if he could only see Nancy McDonald, that perfect creature with
her amazing beauty and splendid courage, just to exchange a few words,
just to receive her smiling "bon voyage," and even to hear her laughing
declaration of her frank enmity, why--it would--But there was no chance
now--none at all. He sailed to-morrow.

He had dreamed a wonderful dream since first he had beheld the charming
fur-clad figure enter his office at Sachigo. He had realised, even in
those first moments, the impish act of Fate. Nancy McDonald was the one
woman in the world who could mean life--real life to him, and they were
definitely arrayed against each other in the battle for commercial
supremacy in which they were both engaged.

But Fate's act had only added to his desire. The whole thing had
appealed to his combative instinct. It had left him feeling there was
not alone the storming of the Skandinavia's stronghold to be achieved.
There was also a captive, a fair, innocent captive held bound and
prisoned within the citadel for him to set free. He wanted Nancy as he
wanted nothing else in the world. Sachigo? Canada for the Canadians?
These things were cold, meaningless words. He only thought of the
dawning of the day that should see Nancy his wife, his everything in
life.

He betook himself out on to the Terraces overlooking the slowly freezing
waterway of the great St. Lawrence river. It was keenly cold, and the
white carpet of winter's first snow remained unmelted on the ground. But
the sun was shining, and the crisp air was sparkling, and the terraces
were filled with fur-clad folk who, like himself, had found leisure for
a half hour of one of the finest views in the world.

He paced leisurely down the great promenade towards the old Citadel with
all its memories of great men, and the old time Buccaneers who had made
history about its walls. He gazed upon it and wondered. Were they such
bad old days? Were the men who lived in those times great men? Were they
scoundrelly Buccaneers? Were their scruples and morals any more lax than
those of to-day? Were they any different from those who walked under the
shadow of the old walls? They were the questions doubtless asked a
thousand times in as many minutes by those who paused to think as they
contemplated this fine old landmark.

Bull found his own prompt answers. There was no difference, he told
himself. The men and women of to-day were doing the same things,
enduring the same emotions, fighting the same battles, living and
loving, and hating and dying, just as life had ordained from the
beginning of time. And as he stood there he wondered how long this round
of human effort and passion must continue. How long this--

"Why, I hadn't an idea you were so interested in our old history as to
be wasting precious time out here in the snow, Mr. Sternford."

The challenge was full of pleasant, even delighted greeting. And Bull
snatched his cigar from his lips and bared his head.

It was the voice he had longed to hear for many days. And it rang with
an added charm in his delighted ears. He had turned on the instant, and
stood smiling down into eyes that had never ceased from their haunting.

He shook his head.

"If you'll believe me I wasn't wasting time," he said. "I came out here
for a very definite purpose. I've done the thing I hoped. Do you know I
guessed I'd have to sail to-morrow without seeing you again?"

Nancy's eyes sobered. And without their smile Bull thought he detected a
cloud of trouble in them.

"I didn't know you were sailing to-morrow," she said. "It's just a
chance I couldn't help that let me meet you now."

"You mean you avoided me--deliberately?"

Bull's smile had passed. But there was no umbrage in his manner. The
girl's appeal for him was never so great as at that moment. She had
never been more beautiful to him. He had first seen her in that same
long fur coat, and had gazed into her pretty eyes under the same fur
cap. He was glad she was so clad now. To his mind no other costume could
have so much charm for him.

"Yes."

The simple downrightness of the admission might have disconcerted
another. But its honesty and lack of subterfuge only pleased the man.

"That's what I thought. It's this business standing between your folk
and me?"

Nancy nodded.

"Yes. We are enemies."

"That's so," Bull agreed. "That's the pity of it. If you were on my
side--"

"But I'm not. No." Nancy's denial was almost sharp. It certainly was
hurried. "I'm kind of glad I've seen you, though," she went on. "I've
had it in mind I wanted to say things to you." A smile came back to her
eyes. "You see, there are enemies and enemies. There's the enemy you can
regard well. There's the enemy you can hate and despise. Well, I just
want to say we're enemies who don't need to hate and despise--yet. I
don't know how things'll be later. Maybe you'll learn to hate me good
before we're through. But that's as maybe. I'm going to do my work for
all I know for my folks. I'm going to be in this fight right up to my
neck. I've been warned that way. Well, that being so, I'm going to fight
without looking for quarter, and I shall give none. That sounds tough,
doesn't it? But I mean it. And I wanted to say it before things start.
I'm glad I've had the chance--against my notions of things."

Bull laughed. He was in the mood to laugh--now.

"It sounds fine. Say--"

"Are you laughing at me?"

"There isn't a thing further from my thoughts." Bull's denial was
sincere and prompt. "I'm glad you happened along. I'm glad you said
those things. Fight this war--as I shall--with all that's in you. It
don't matter a thing if you're right or wrong. Fight it square and hard
for your folk, and there isn't a right man or woman, but who'll respect
you, and think the better of you for it. A good fight's no crime when
you're convinced you're right."

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