The Man in the Twilight by Ridgwell Cullum

R >> Ridgwell Cullum >> The Man in the Twilight

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26

All the promise of her earlier youth had been abundantly fulfilled.
Tall, gracious of figure, her beauty had a charm and dignity which owed
almost as much to mentality as it did to physical form. Yet, for all she
had already passed her twenty-fourth birthday, she was amazingly
innocent of those things which are counted as the governing factors of a
woman's life. Certainly she knew and loved the Titian hue of her wealth
of hair; her mirror was constantly telling her of the hazel depths of
her wide, intelligent eyes, with their fringes of dark, curling, Celtic
lashes. Then the almost classic moulding of her features. She could not
escape realising these things. But they meant no more to her than the
fact that her nose was not awry, and her lips were not misshapen, and
her even, white teeth were perfectly competent for their proper
function.

She was a happy blending of soul and mentality. Heredity seemed to have
done its best for her. The Gaelic fire and the brilliance and
irresponsibility of her misguided father seemed to have been balanced
and tempered by the gentle woman soul of her mother. And through the
eyes of both she gazed out upon the world, inspired and supported by a
tireless nervous energy.

Since the memorable day of her interview with her appointed trustee,
Charles Nisson, her development had been rapid. The events which had
suddenly been flung into her life at the interview seemed to have
unloosed a hundred latent, unguessed emotions in her child heart, and
translated her at once into a thinking, high-spirited woman.

She honestly strove to banish bitterness against the man who had
deprived her of that mother love which had been her childhood's
treasure, but always a shadow of it remained to colour her thought, and
influence her impulse. She had studied the deed of settlement as she had
promised. She had studied it coldly, dispassionately. She had looked
upon it as a mere document aimed to benefit her, without regard for her
feelings for the man who had made it. She had thought over it at night
when passion was less to be controlled. She had consulted those she had
been bidden to consult, and had listened to, and had weighed their
kindly advice. And when all was done she took her own decision as she
was bound to do. It was a decision that had no relation to reason, only
to passionate impulse.

She would not accept the things the deed offered her. She would not
accept this reparation so coldly held out. She would not live a
leisured, vegetable life, with no greater ambition than to marry and
bear children. The simple prospect of marriage and motherhood could
never satisfy in itself. That would be a happy incident, but not the
whole, and acceptance of that deed would surely have robbed her of the
rest.

There were times when she felt the disabilities of her sex. She knew she
was deprived of the physical strength which the battle of life seemed to
demand. But to her the world was wide, and big, and, in her girl's
imagination, teeming with appealing adventure. The world alone could not
satisfy her.

Once her decision was taken all the kindly efforts of her mentors at
Marypoint were rallied in her support. They had advised out of their
wisdom, but acted from their hearts. And the day on which the principal
of the college notified her that the Skandinavia Corporation of Quebec
had signified its willingness to absorb her into its service as typist
and stenographer, at one hundred dollars per month, was the happiest she
had known since her well-loved mother had been taken out of her life.

Now, after three years of unwearying effort, there was still no shadow
to mar her happiness, or temper her enthusiasm. On the contrary, there
was much to stimulate both. In that brief period she had succeeded
almost beyond her dreams. Was she not already the trusted, confidential
secretary to the ruling power in the great offices of the Skandinavia
Corporation? Had she not been taken out of the ranks of the many capable
stenographers, and been given a private office, a doubled salary, and
work to do which left her wide scope for the play of those gifts with
which she was so liberally endowed? Yes. All these things had been
showered upon her in three years. She was a figure of authority in the
great establishment. And furthermore, the man she served--this man,
Elas Peterman--had hinted, and even definitely talked of, further rapid
promotion.

She had worked hard for it all. Oh, yes. She had worked morning, noon,
and night. When other girls had been content to study fashions and
styles, and chatter "beaus" and husbands, she had given herself up to
the study of the wood-pulp trade, and the world's market of the material
she was interested in. She had saturated herself with the whole scheme,
and purpose, and methods of her employers, till, as Peterman himself had
once told her in admiration at her grasp of the business, she knew as
much of the trade as he did himself. And even after that her mirror,
that oracle of a woman's life, failed to yield her the real truth it is
always ready to tell to its devotees.

The pre-occupation suddenly passed out of the girl's eyes. She stirred.
Then she stood up and collected a number of papers into a small leather
attache case. A moment later she pressed the bell push on the desk.

Her summons was promptly answered by a slim figured girl, with fair
hair, and "jumpered" in the latest style.

"I shall be away a while. See to the 'phone, Miss Webster," Nancy said,
in a tone of quiet but definite authority. "I shall be with Mr.
Peterman. Don't ring me unless it's something important. That summary.
Is it ready?"

"It's being checked right now."

"Well, speed them up. You can send it up directly it's through. Mr.
Peterman is needing it."

Nancy passed out of the room. Her discipline was strict. Sometimes it
approached severity. But she understood its necessity for obtaining
results. Her orders would be carried out.

* * * * *

Elas Peterman set the 'phone back in its place. His dark eyes were
smiling. They were shining, too, in a curious, not altogether wholesome
fashion. He had just finished talking to Nancy McDonald, and he was
thinking of the vision of red hair, of the serious hazel eyes gazing out
of their setting of fair, almost transparent complexion.

He took up his pen to continue the letter he had been writing. But he
added no word. The girl he had been speaking with still occupied his
thoughts to the exclusion of all else.

He was a good-looking man, clean cut and youthful. His profile was
finely chiselled. But his Teutonic origin was clearly marked. It was in
the straight square back of his head. It was in the prominent, heavily,
rounded chin, and the squareness of his lower jaw. Furthermore, the
high, mathematical forehead was quite unmistakable. There was power,
force, in the personality of the man. But there was something else. It
lay in his mouth, in his eyes. The former was gross, and definite
sensuality looked out of the latter.

As the door opened to admit Nancy his pen promptly descended on his
paper. But he did not write. He looked up with a smile.

"Come right in, my dear," he said cordially, with the patronising
familiarity of a man conscious of his power. "Just sit right down while
I finish this letter." Then he added gratuitously, "It's a rude letter
to a feller I've no use for; and I don't guess to rob myself of the
pleasure of passing it plenty to him--in my own handwriting."

Nancy smiled as she took the chair beside the desk which was usually
assigned to her in her intercourse with her chief.

"I wish I felt that way writing a bad letter," she said. "But I don't.
It just makes me madder with folks, and I go right on thinking things,
and--and--it worries."

Elas Peterman shook his head.

"Guess you'll get over that, my dear," he said easily. "Sure you will.
You're just a dandy-minded kid, learning the things of life. You feel
good most all the time. That's how it is. You want to laff and see
things happy all around you. Later you'll get so you see the other
feller mostly thinks of himself, and don't care a hoot for the folks
sitting around. Then you'll feel different; and you'll tell folks you
don't like the things you feel about them."

He went on writing, smiling at his own cynicism.

Nancy leant back in her chair. His words left her unaffected. She was
used to him. But, for a moment, she contemplated the dark head,
supported on his hand, without any warmth of regard.

After awhile she glanced away, her gaze wandering over the luxurious
furnishings of the room. And it occurred to her to wonder how much, if
any, of the excellent taste of the decorations owed inception to the man
at the desk. No. Not much. The cheque-book and the decorator's artist
must have been responsible. This grossly Teutonic creature with his
cynical, commercial mind, was something of an anachronism, and could
never have inspired the perfect harmony of the palatial offices of his
Corporation. It was rather a pity. He had been exceedingly good to her.
She would have liked to think that he was the genius of the whole
structure of the Skandinavia, even to the decorations of the office. But
it was impossible.

The man blotted and folded his letter. He enclosed and sealed it. He
even addressed it himself.

"I'm kind of sorry I had to break in on you while you were fixing those
reports," he said, in his friendliest fashion. "But, you see, I'm just
through with the Board, and we took a bunch of decisions that need
handling right away. Tell me," he went on, an ironical light creeping
into his smiling eyes, "you reckon you've set your finger on the real
trouble with our dropping output. I want to know about it because the
Board and I can't be sure we've located it right."

The sarcasm hurt. It was not intended to. Elas Peterman had no desire in
the world to hurt this girl. A cleverer man would have avoided it. But
this man had no refinement of thought or feeling. Cynicism and sarcasm
were his substitutes for a humour he did not possess.

Nancy's cheeks flushed hotly. But she stifled her feelings. She was
confident of herself, and despite the manner of the challenge, she knew
the moment of her great opportunity had come.

With a quick movement she crossed her knees and leant forward. She
smiled in response.

"Yet, it's easy," she said boldly, with bland retaliation. "The reports
are not good. And the trouble stands out clear as daylight. I guess a
big scale contour map is the key to it. We've 'hand-weeded' the
Shagaunty Valley. It's picked bare to the bone. The folks have cleared
the forests right away to the higher slopes of the river. We're moving
farther and farther away from the river highway. Well, that's all right
in its way. Ordinarily that would just mean our light railways are
extending farther, and a few cents more are added to our transport
costs. Owing to our concentration of organisation that wouldn't signify.
No. It's Nature, it's the forest itself turning us down. And the map,
and the reports show that. The camps are right out on the plateau
surrounding the valley, which is unprotected from winter storms. The
close, luxurious growth of the valley we have been accustomed to is
gone. The standing cordage of lumber is no less, only in bulk, girth.
The trees are mostly less than half the girth. The result? Why, they
have to work farther out. Each camp cuts over four times the area.
Instead of a proportion of, say, two trees in five, it's about one in,
say, ten. It looks like a simple sum. I should say we've lumbered that
valley at least one season too long."

The man's smile had passed. There was no longer derision in his keen
eyes. He had invited this girl's talk for the sake of hearing it. Now he
was caught in admiration of her clear perception.

"Do the reports bear out those facts?"

His question was sharp, and Nancy realised she had done well.

She shook her head.

"No. They do just the thing you'd expect them to do," she said. "They
make every sort of excuse that couldn't possibly account for the drop.
And avoid the real cause which their writers are perfectly aware of."
She shrugged her pretty shoulders. "You wouldn't expect it otherwise.
You want to remember those reports are written by bosses who're more
interested in their own comfort than in the affairs of the Skandinavia."

"How?"

Again the girl's expressive shrug.

"To quit the Shagaunty and break new ground means the break up of those
amenities and comforts they've accumulated in years. It means work, real
hard work, and discomfort for at least two seasons. You see, we need to
get into the skin of these folk. They can keep the booms full from these
forests, and the kick only comes when the grinders get to work. Output
falls automatically with the girth of the lumber sent down. It's a close
calculation; but on the year it means a lot. I learned that from Mr.
Osbert, at the mills on the Shagaunty. Well, so long as the booms are
kept full, the camp bosses are satisfied. There's a limit below which
the girth of logs may not go. They watch that limit, and are careful not
to go below it. Well, our big output has been made up always, not by
the minimum logs, but the maximum to which we have been hitherto
accustomed. These boys know all about that; but they're satisfied with
such bulk as doesn't fall below the minimum. And when asked, suggest
fire, storm and sickness, anything rather than the real cause which
drops our output. They'll not willingly face the discomfort and added
work of opening a new territory. There's just one decision needed."

"What's that?"

The girl laughed. It was a low, pleasant, happy laugh. She felt glad.
Her chief was serious. He was in deadly earnest, and it represented her
revenge for his sarcasm.

"We've five other rivers running down to the lake. The Shagaunty isn't
even the largest. Well, these boys will have to be shaken out of their
dream. We ought to quit the Shagaunty right away and make a break for
fresh 'limits.' It's simple."

The man had no responsive smile. He shook his head.

"That's what it isn't, my dear," he said.

For the time the girl's beauty, her personality were quite forgotten.
Peterman was absorbed.

"It means the complete dislocation of our forest organisation," he went
on. "Here, I'll tell you something. We've done a very great thing in the
past. And it's been easy. Years ago we decided by concentration of all
our forest work on a limited area we could cut costs to the lowest. That
way we could jump in on the market cheaper than all the rest. Our forest
limits were the finest in Canada. We had standing stuff practically
inexhaustible, and of a size almost unheard of. What was the result?
Why, one by one we've absorbed competitors at our own price till the
Skandinavia stands head and shoulders above the world's groundwood
industry. That's all right. That's fine," he went on, after a pause.
"But like most easy trails, you're liable to keep on 'em longer than is
good for you. We haven't had to worry a thing up to now. You see, we'd
stifled competition, and we'd paid a steady thirty per cent dividend.
Which left our Board in an unholy state of dope. I've tried to wake 'em.
Oh, yes. I tried when that guy started up his outfit on Labrador. The
Sachigo outfit. Then he seemed to fade away, and I couldn't rouse 'em
again." He shook his head--"Nothing doing. Well, for something like
fifteen years those guys of Sachigo have been doing and working; and
now, to-day, they've jumped into the market with both feet. I haven't
the full measure of things yet. But the play's a big thing. They're out
for the game we've been playing. Say, they're combining every old mill
we've left over. All the derelicts and moth-bounds. Their hands are out
grabbing all over the country. Well, that wouldn't scare me worth a
cent, only they've never let up in fifteen years, and there's talk about
big British finance getting behind 'em."

The man broke off. His serious eyes remained steadily regarding the
girl's interested face.

"You reckon this change is easy," he went on again. "I guess it would be
easy if these folk hadn't jumped into the market. That makes all the
difference. While we're changing they're busy. Their stuff's coming down
in thousands of tons. And it's _better_ groundwood than ours. If we
change over we're going to leave the market short and these folk will
get big contracts. You're right. We've been working the Shagaunty too
long. But it's been by three or four seasons. Not one. The time's
coming, if it hasn't already come, when we've got to fight these folks
and smash 'em; or get right out of business."

Something of the girl's joy had passed in face of the man's statement.

"There's been talk of these Sachigo folk in the trade," she said
thoughtfully, "but I didn't know it was as big as you say. Of course--"

"Sure you didn't. You haven't had to handle our stuff on the market."
The man laughed. And something of his seriousness passed. "But you're a
bright kid. And the Skandinavia's looking for bright kids all the time.
It needs 'em to counter a doped Board. It's taken you five minutes to
locate a trouble the Board's taken years to realise. And you've been
talking one of the bunch of decisions we've taken. I mean quitting the
Shagaunty. We didn't have your argument, but we had the 'drop.' So the
decision was taken. We've got to move like hell. Sachigo has our
measure, and it's going to be a big fight. How'd you fancy a trip up
country? I mean up the Shagaunty?"

There was a change in the man's voice and manner as he put his demand.
He was leaning forward in his chair. A hot light had suddenly leapt into
his eyes, which left them shining unwholesomely. Nancy was startled at
his words. And his attitude shocked her not a little out of her
self-satisfaction.

"I don't know--. How do you mean?" she demanded awkwardly.

The man realised her astonishment and laughed. Then he reached out, and
his hand patted the rounded shoulder nearest him. It was a touch that
lingered unnecessarily, and the girl stirred restlessly under it.

"Why, it's the chance of a life--for you," he said boisterously. "You'll
go right up through the camps. You'll take your notions with you and
investigate. I'll hand you a written commission, and the folk'll lay
their 'hands' down for you to see. When you've seen it all you'll get
right back here, and I'll set you before the Board to tell your story. I
don't need to tell a bright girl like you what that means to you. You'll
get one dandy summer trip, and I'll lose one dandy secretary. But I'm
not kicking. No. You see, Nancy, I'm out to help you all you need.
Well?"

It was crude, clumsy. It was all so blatantly vulgar. It was not the
thing he said. It was the manner of it and all that which was lying
unspoken behind.

For the first time Nancy experienced a curious uncertainty in dealing
with him. But here was real opportunity. She had dreamed of such. And
she must take it. The touch of the man's hand upon her shoulder had
disturbed her. But she smiled her gratitude at him.

"It's too good," she exclaimed, with apparent impulse. "It's just too
good of you. Will I go? Why, yes. Surely. And I'll make good for you. I
believe it's the best thing. Someone to go who'll bring back a dead
right story. I'd be real glad."

"That's bully!" The man beamed as he leant back in his chair more than
satisfied with himself. "But I don't fancy losing my dandy secretary,"
he went on. "No, sir. I'm going to hate this summer bad. I surely am.
Still, there's next winter. Winter's not too bad with us. And a feller
needs consolation in winter. There's theatres, and ice parties, and
dances, and things. And I guess when the Board's fixed a big jump up for
you, you'll feel like getting around some. Well, I'm mostly vacant. A
feller can't live all the time at home with his wife and kids. I guess I
could show you Quebec at night better than most--"

The telephone saved Nancy the rest of the man's rendering of his account
and she breathed deeply her relief. But the interruption was by no means
welcome to the man. And his irritation was promptly displayed by the
vindictive "Well?" he flung at the unyielding receiver.

"Oh! What's that? Who? Hellbeam? Oh. Sure. Yes. Send him right up. Don't
keep him waiting. Right up now. Yes."

He thrust up the instrument and sat back in his chair.

"Curse the man!"

Nancy had risen from her chair at the mention of Hellbeam's name. She
was glad enough of the excuse. She understood Hellbeam was the great
outstanding figure in the concern of the Skandinavia. His was the one
personality that dwarfed everybody. He was the moving power of the whole
concern.

"You'll let me know later?" she said. "I mean, just when I'm to start
out. I'm ready when you like. I'll just go and see why those reports
have not been sent up."

"Oh, don't worry with the reports. You've told me the things that
matter."

The man's irritation was as swift as it was violent. But it passed as
quickly as it came. He laughed.

"That's all right, my dear. Be off now. I'll let you know about things
this afternoon."

Nancy gladly accepted her dismissal. She wanted to think. She wanted to
get things into their proper focus. As she closed the door behind her
her beautiful eyes had no joy in them. She had realised two things as a
result of her interview. The opportunity she had looked forward to had
materialised, and she had seized it with both hands. But the goodness of
Elas Peterman to herself possessed none of that disinterested kindliness
she had hitherto believed. Furthermore, there was dawning upon her that
which her mirror should have told her long ago. She was beginning to
understand that her work, her capacity, her application, counted far
less in the favour of her chief than did those things with which nature
had equipped her. She was shocked out of her youthful dream. And it left
her so troubled, that, had she not been passing down the carpeted
corridor of the Skandinavia offices, she would have burst into a flood
of tears.

* * * * *

It was a different Elas Peterman who confronted the squat figure of
Nathaniel Hellbeam. The master in the younger man was completely
submerged. He possessed all the Teutonic capacity for self-abnegation in
the presence of the power it is necessary to woo. There was only one
master when the great financier was present. Elas Peterman knew that his
part was to listen and obey with just that humility which he would have
demanded had the position been reversed.

Another type than Hellbeam's would have despised the attitude. But the
financier had no scruple. Nature had denied him qualities for inspiring
affectionate regard, or even respect. But she had bestowed on him a lust
for power, and a great vanity, and these he satisfied to the uttermost.

The financier drove straight to the object of his visit.

"I come for an important purpose," he said, in his guttural fashion.
"There must be a special Board assemble. Skandinavia will buy the mill
on Labrador. The Sachigo mill. I come on the night train, which is the
worst thing I can think to do, to say this thing. If we do not buy this
mill, then--" He broke off with an expressive gesture.

Elas nodded. He was startled, but his powers of dissimulation were
profound.

"I understand," he said. "They have been approached?"

Hellbeam stirred his bulk in the chair Nancy had so recently occupied.
It was a movement of irritation.

"That is for you. You represent Skandinavia. I--I say this thing. I the
money find."

The face of Peterman was a study. His eyes were serious, his manner
calmly considering. Amazement was struggling with a desire to laugh
outright in the face of this grossly insolent money power.

"Nothing could suit us better, sir," he said, deferentially. "They've
been handing us more trouble than I fancy talking about. And they look
like handing us still more. These people have grown slowly, but very
deliberately. There's something very like genius in their management.
And seemingly they possess unlimited capital or credit. I guess I know
something of their contemplated manoeuvres. They're assembling all the
free mills outside our ring. I see a great big scrap coming. May I ask
the price you're considering?"

Hellbeam produced a gold cigar case. A greater man would have been
content with a certain modesty of appointment. His case was comparable
in vulgarity with the size of his cigars. He thrust the pierced end of
the cigar between his gross lips and spoke with the huge thing lolling.

"It does not matter. I say buy."

The tone, the snapping of the man's eyes forbade further probing in this
direction. He lit his cigar.

"It will need careful handling," ventured Peterman.

Hellbeam snorted.

"It careful handling always needs. Eh?"

"Surely. I was thinking."

"So. You will think. Then you will act. You will communicate forthwith.
See? You listen. I buy this Sachigo, yes. The price matters nothing.
There is a reason. This fight. It is not that. Who is the head? I would
know. I fancy this man to meet. He is what you call--bright. So."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26