Thornbright's Surprise

by John Habberton

THORNBRIGHT'S SURPRISE

By John Habberton

It has hitherto been supposed that jealousy and hatred of all rivals were the ruling passions in an unsuccessful lover's breast; but, in this interesting story, we are told of a young clergyman who, for the sake of the girl he cannot win, unostentatiously does his faint-hearted competitor a good turn. Copyright by the Authors' Alliance.

 

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Tom Thornbright was so fine a fellow that all women of his acquaintance said there was but one thing he needed to do to make him perfect, and that was to marry. Women had been saying this for ten years, for Tom had reached his thirty-fifth year when the incidents occurred which brought about the surprise with which this veracious narrative has to do. He was born handsome and wealthy, and the family money had lasted until Tom was educated and fairly launched in good society. Just as he was about to enter the business world, however, the bottom came out of the family barrel—Tom's father knocked it out with some indorsements, which not only impoverished the old man, but sent him insolvent to the grave.

Tom bore up bravely under the double infliction; he came of some good old farmer stock, such as has supplied the present generation with most of its solid men—stock that no financial cyclones can uproot, however rudely they may bend it. He was not left penniless, for the income from the estate of his mother, who had died some years before, enabled him to dress well and keep his place in the club and in society. He had another trouble, though, which could not be abated by the keeping of a stiff upper lip and the belief that his father's death was to the dear, troubled old man a blessing in disguise. Tom had begun to believe himself in love with Ettie Raytham, a sweet little girl five or six years his junior. Like most young men in society, he imagined that he knew girls quite well; unlike most young men, he had been taught to study human nature carefully, and even to study it in the light of heredity, and one result was that he was sure that Ettie Raytham never could be spoiled by wealth or flattery, although she had plenty of both.

He could not propose to her while he had but two or three thousand dollars a year; other young fellows often did that sort of thing, were accepted, and unblushingly lived on their wives' marriage portions, but Tom was not that sort of man. The longer he thought of the matter, the more he assured himself that the quicker he bade Ettie good-by and left the city, the less unhappiness would there be for both of them. If he remained near her, he would be sure to propose suddenly some time when his sentiments would get the better of his principles, as all men's did at times.

So Tom, after buying a small interest in an alleged silver-mine in Dakota, and completing his arrangements to leave town to look after his property—on which he meant to use manfully on pick and shovel the muscle he had developed in his college boat crew—went to make his last call upon Ettie. He kept himself well in hand; any one might have overheard the conversation without imagining the parties were more than old acquaintances, but Tom fancied that Ettie's countenance became graver after he said he was going away. He could not help looking intently at her; he would willingly endure any misery for the sake of having a distinct picture of her in his memory. Then he fancied that whenever her eye met his she gave a little start; so he made haste to depart, lingering only as he took her hand and found she did not withdraw it.

As Tom left the house he thanked Heaven that the interview was over; suddenly, however, he thought of the other place, for as he left the house he met Wilke Straighten, a theological student, going in. Tom disliked theological students on general principles; but most of them whom he had met at college were cads, and the remainder had seemed to mistake the seriousness of deficient vitality for religious sentiment. He hated Wilke Straighten in particular, for although he was a feeble, under-sized, short-sighted fellow, he had a way among women that was very taking, and his admiration for Ettie Raytham was evident to every one. He was the only son of a widowed mother who was quite wealthy, and men at the club said that Wilke was being fattened for a big city pulpit.

"Confound him!" muttered Tom to himself as bestrode away through the darkness, "I suppose he'll get her. She's a good little thing, and all the shrewd girls that don't want to marry into the clergy will advise her to take him, so as to have one less rival for themselves in the open field. If he does get her, and doesn't make her happy, I'll play the part of big brother and make him wish he'd never been born—hang his insignificant sanctimonious soul!"

Tom carried a heavy heart to his silver-mine and worked so hard that the claim, which was little more than a "prospect hole" when he reached it, accumulated a "dump" of ore that enabled Tom to sell out, at the end of a year and a half, at a profit of five thousand dollars. Then he ventured East again, and brought some hope with him, for an old friend or two had kept him informed about his set, and nothing had been written which could imply that Ettie Raytham had given away her heart. Five thousand dollars, added to the income which he had left untouched for many months, amounted to nearly twice five, and he had often heard brokers who belonged to his club say that with ten thousand dollars clear any man with his brains in his head and a grip on his nerves was sure sooner or later to make a big strike in Wall Street.

He did not go into "the street," however, or even into the club, until he had called upon Ettie Raytham. He informed himself on the way that he was not going to make a fool of himself, but merely to renew the acquaintance; it would be time enough to go further when his hopes of wealth were realized. Though he might find her unengaged, he would not attempt to be more than a friend; still more, he would take great care not to fall deeper in love than he was, for two disappointments over one woman would be too much for a heart like his to endure.

He found the original different from the picture he had carried away of a sweet, intelligent, pretty rosebud of a girl. Miss Raytham was an inch or two taller than of old, and the bud had become a handsome flower. Tom restricted his call to half an hour, but before the first five minutes were gone he was far deeper in love than before. He couldn't help it; it was not only because of her unexpected beauty—her evident pleasure at seeing him was what opened his heart and turned his head. In spite of himself he found his feelings getting into his voice and manner, and when she gave him her hand at parting it required a terrible effort on his part to release it. He left the house with the air of a prince, yet it was again his misfortune to meet Wilke Straighten going in, and the little fellow, on recognizing and greeting him, concentrated such an inquiring look through his very convex glasses that Tom wanted to pick him up, break him in two, and drop the fragments into the street.

"Thornbright seems to have left his spirits out West," remarked Bloggs the broker, to a chum at the club, an hour after Tom had dropped in and greeted his old acquaintances.

"Yes; always the way with fellows who leave town and tie themselves down to money-spinning in the wilderness."

"Eh? Money-spinning?"

"Yes; they say he struck it rich."

"Umph!" After making this remark Broker Bloggs retired within himself and the club library, in neither of which places was he likely to be disturbed; before the evening ended he had renewed his acquaintance with Tom, expressed his envy of men who could dig money out of the ground while other fellows had to endure the pangs of Tantalus over the good things which were lying around in Wall Street, yet which they hadn't money enough to pick up and turn over. Tom became interested and asked questions; it was like drawing teeth to get facts out of the broker, but finally Tom was "let in on the ground-floor," to the extent of a hundred shares on a very good thing, and gave his check for a thousand dollars as a margin. Then, in spite of an occasional intrusion of Wilke Straighten's exasperating little figure and big eyeglasses, Tom dreamed happily for hours before he fell asleep.

 

Tom soon began to grow rich—on the broker's books, and felt justified in calling frequently upon Miss Raytham. Slowly he ceased to fear Straighten as a rival; sometimes he met him at Miss Raytham's, and the little fellow certainly was very attentive, but Tom could not see that the girl regarded him with a sentiment stronger than friendship; still, girls like Miss Raytham were not likely to give themselves away in public. Tom would willingly have been satisfied with his own chances did he not often see that inquiring look in the little fellow's eyes—a look which apparently was trying to discover Tom's intentions. He mentally cursed the little fellow's impudence, and wished that public sentiment did not discountenance boxing the ears of a man who was too religious to resist and too weak to fight.

Meanwhile love and business grew apace. In spite of a few small losses, Tom did so well in Wall Street that Broker Bloggs dubbed him a mascot, a luck-penny, and all that sort of thing. Tom resolved that when his gains reached a hundred thousand dollars he would dare propose, for the income of that amount added to that which he annually received would enable him to maintain a wife according to the style of the Raythams' set. It looked like a great deal of money to expect, but had not certain other men, who had recently started on small capital, made even more in a single year? If not, then Broker Bloggs and many other Wall Street men lied. Besides, Tom was not confining himself to his original venture of a thousand dollars; he had put his entire capital into different ventures; he studied "the street" closely and was sure he knew what would go up, what go down. Broker Bloggs humored him until he discovered that all of Tom's money had passed into his hands for use; then that astute operator encouraged Tom to venture everything on the tremendous plunge into C. B. & A. preferred, which was sure to go up. Within a week Broker Bloggs was forty thousand dollars ahead, and Tom was wiped out of the street. Worse still, everybody knew it; losers have no confidences that brokers are bound to respect, so Tom was chaffed at the club and stared at in a pitying way in society. He felt like shaking the dust of the city from his feet forever, but it would look like cowardice. He did, however, keep away from the Raythams, thinking it the manly thing, in the circumstances, and he consoled himself with the thought that he would be relieved of the necessity of seeing little Straighten, whom he never had met anywhere else. But luck was against him even in this, for one day Straighten stopped him on the avenue, not far from the club, fixed the customary inquiring gaze upon him, and said with the half-smile, half-grin peculiar to very short-sighted persons:

"Ah, Mr. Thornbright, I—ah—thought I would say to you that I was—ah—speaking of you at the Raythams' a night or two ago, and—ah—Miss Raytham remarked that she had not seen you in an age."

The stare and the grinnish smile continued. Tom flushed and exclaimed: "Confound your impudence! If it weren't for your cloth I'd break your neck. What do you mean?"

Grin, smile, and stare disappeared as the little man in black replied: "I'm trying to give you a friendly suggestion. I'm very sorry if you're not enough of a gentleman to understand It. Good-day."

Away went the little man, with enough dignity to supply two or three bishops, while Tom gazed after him in amazement. What could the fellow be up to? Tom had heard that some of those quiet little ministers—Straighten had recently been ordained—were sly dogs, and that all of them were on "still hunts" for rich wives. Probably that little wretch was planning to make Tom propose now and be rejected for his poverty, as most poor young men were when they attempted to marry money; then the coast would be clear for the man who had both wealth and position.

Still, Tom called; it was impossible to deny himself the pleasure after having the girl so powerfully forced upon his mind. First, however, he made arrangements to go upon the cattle-ranch of a friend in the West; the owner, who knew Tom's resources, would take long notes on payment for a part interest. There was no business, at the time, at which a man with a good head for figures could see more certain profit than in cattle-raising on a ranch. Several young swells whom Tom knew had gone West with small capital, remained on ranches three or four years, visiting New York each season, and finally returning with small fortunes. What man had done, man could do. He told Miss Raytham what his business plans were, and again she looked grave, though she soon recovered her customary manner. Evidently she was very fond of him. Would that her father might speculate, indorse for irresponsible friends—do anything, so that he might lose his money, and a poor man could honorably woo the daughter! Tom was half-disposed to offer himself then and there, and ask the girl to wait for him, but he controlled himself; he admitted that there were other men as good as he, and that it would be better—for Ettie—to marry one of them than to wait years for a man who had his fortune to make; he had seen girls wait and wither through hope deferred. He skilfully turned the conversation to such a case, and spoke indignantly of the lover who permitted it. Ettie, in turn, praised the girl for her faithfulness, and there was no knowing what might have followed had not that short-sighted little minister called just then. The two men greeted each other coldly and Tom departed, growling to himself, "I'd give a good deal to know what that little scoundrel's game is."

A few weeks later he thought he found out, for he learned from a visiting ranch-owner that the best ranch in all the West—a ranch where there was plenty of grass and water, and good protection for the herd should winter storms be severe—had a New York minister for principal owner—a man named Straighten. Then Tom raved, and his horses wished themselves dead as their owner rode whole days at the gallop, filling the air with severe language about the sneaking ways of preachers in general and the Rev. Wilke Straighten in particular. It was no secret in New York that Straighten, though an official of the church in which he occasionally conducted service, had made a lot of money on the very stock which had ruined Tom; now he was his competitor in a different line of stock; he was going to show the girl that besides being wealthy and religious he was also able in business—he was going to keep ahead of his rival in worldly affairs. The scoundrel!

Yet Miss Raytham remained unmarried. Tom feared to open letters from New York, and he could not without an effort look at society news in the city newspapers with which he kept himself well supplied. He found no bad news, however, and each winter when he ran East for two or three weeks Miss Raytham seemed as glad as ever to see him. By this time Tom had become to really know girls very well, and each year he searched in vain for the giddiness and flippancy which overtake many admirable young women in society after they pass their twenty-fifth year. Ettie's beauty seemed to increase, and as time passed there came into her face and manner a nobility which added reverence to Tom's love. Could it be possible that all of her beauty, character, and accomplishments would one day be thrown away upon that little minister? No; not if she remained herself Yet she was human; splendid girls of a certain age had been known to make very odd marriages, apparently in desperation at the fear of remaining single for life. He wished he could spend more time at the East and keep his eye on the girl for a little while. Only one more season and he would reach his financial goal, and then—but 'twas of no use to wish; he was now sole owner of the business, and he had seen other ranches come to grief through leaving too much to their assistants. After the next season, though!—the thought of it sent an exultant flash into his eyes as he made a parting call on Miss Raytham—a flash that brought color to her cheeks and apparently a glad answer from her yes.

 

That season was in every way the best that Tom had ever made on the ranch; he sold some stock at good prices, using the money to buy cheaply the herds of two or three small operators who were suddenly taken with "mining fever." His plan was to hold all until spring, and then, when the herd and grass were in fine condition, to sell; there would be no lack of buyers, for ranching still outranked any other industry in the country in the eyes of capitalists. To make assurance doubly sure, he postponed his winter visit to New York. Before the winter ended he was sadly glad that he had remained on the ranch, for wind and snow were so terrible and continuous that the greater part of nearly every one's herd, including Tom's, died, and the remainder came out in condition so bad that it seemed doubtful whether the spring grass would pull them through. And yet—such is the irony of fate—that detested preacher's ranch was spared; between natural and artificial shelter the herd was saved from any but trifling loss! Everybody talked about it—talked about it to Tom, and asked if he knew who that lucky preacher was, until the ruined, angry, desperate man nearly lost his senses.

Only one thing was certain: in the general wreck of business he must give up hope of being in position to ask Ettie Raytham to be his wife. Both would soon be middle-aged people—according to the standard of age that men under thirty-five adopt; he had been a dismal failure in all work he had undertaken, so it was quite unlikely that even old friends would care to have him in business with them. He had plenty of friends who were doing well financially—some who were profiting by advice they had asked of him in mining and ranching. Tom had learned that friendship seldom prompts one man to share his business with another except for quite as much as a stranger could be compelled to pay; business men were not made that way. Some one might be good-natured enough to give him a clerkship that would enable him to seem to be doing something; but he had no intention of parading with New York's army of well-born incompetents. All that seemed left for him was to knock about the West, with the hope of again making something in mining or ranching, but by the time he could hope to succeed he and Ettie would have gray hair; he did not like to see gray-haired lovers.

For weeks he remained on his ranch, longing for the time when he could sell what remained—if any one would buy. One day while seriously wondering whether to turn hermit or prospector he received a letter, addressed in an unknown hand and postmarked "New York."

"Some new fool that wants advice about ranching, I suppose," sighed Tom to himself, as he slowly tore the end of the envelope. "It's the uusal way; greenhorns always want to get into a thing about the time that veterans are trying to get out. I wonder if it is some one I can unload upon, and—Great Scott!"

This exclamation burst forth as Tom turned the letter and looked at the signature. Then he dropped the letter on the floor and stared blankly at it. Finally he recovered himself and stooped to pick it up, saying:

"I don't see why I should act as if it were a rattlesnake, even if it is signed Wilke Straighten. But what on earth—well, the quickest way to see why he writes me is to read it, I suppose!"

Tom began with trepidation; perhaps the little schemer has at last captured Ettie Raytham; if so, he would be just mean enough to write a sanctimonious letter with a great deal of old Adam in it, Tom read aloud, slowly, as follows:

 

New York, April 10th, 188-.

Mr. Thomas Thornbright—

Sir: Though our last communication with each other was not entirely devoid of bad feeling, I know you for an honest man, and I therefore take the liberty of consulting you about a matter of business in which there may be something to our mutual advantage. For some years I have been interested in the Double Row Ranch, and recently I have become sole proprietor. The amount of capital is greater than any man should allow to remain invested in property which from time to time varies in value, and to which he is unable to give his personal attention. I understand, also, that for several reasons the business promises to be less remunerative than heretofore, and that the recent great losses through inclement weather has had the effect of depreciating all such property.

I wish, therefore, to sell out, and as I believe my property is within a hundred miles of you, in a region entirely devoted to the business, and therefore likely to contain some possible purchasers, and as at worst the transaction should yield quite a large commission to whoever may secure a purchaser, I write to ask if it will be convenient and agreeable to you to act for me. I do not know the present value of the herd and the range privileges, but I shall be glad to get thirty thousand dollars for everything. On this amount I will pay you a commission of ten per cent; should you succeed in getting a higher price, you are quite welcome to retain all in excess of above-named sum.

Trusting that the transaction may not seem too unimportant to merit your attention, I venture to inclose full power of attorney. Hoping for an early reply, I am

Very respectfully yours,
Wilke Straighten.

 

Tom did not again drop the letter. On the contrary, he held it tightly as he again looked blank, indulged in a long, low whistle, and exclaimed:

"Thirty thousand for the Double Row Ranch?-ten per cent?—I to be—let's see—where is it?—here it is: 'Should you succeed in getting a higher price, you are quite welcome to retain all in excess of above-named sum.' Why, Double Row is worth five times what he asks for it—at least five times as much. 'Twould have brought it last fall; it ought to bring more now, when it's stood the test of such a winter. The man's a fool—about ranching at least; yet this is the fellow I've been dreading for years! Umph! Evidently there's been a pair of fools."

Again Tom looked at the last page of the letter: he seemed to doubt his own eyesight.

"Yes; there's no mistake. If the price weren't written out, I should believe he had left off a cipher at the end. And I am quite welcome to retain all in excess of—pshaw! I couldn't do it—not even with him. 'Twould be a rank swindle. But oh, what a temptation!"

Tom got upon his feet and paced the floor of his two-room house. Could he honorably act, in business, for a man whom he hated so intensely—sell his services, for money, to a rival? On the other hand, could he refuse the chance, plainly and freely offered, to become a man of means, redeem his reputation as a business man, and reward Ettie Raytham, so far as his life's devotion could be a reward, for the graciousness with which she had apparently waited for him? To take the minister's money and also the woman whom the little fellow adored would be brutal, and yet, after all, it wouldn't be his doing, for if Ettie were to accept him, it would be proof that she could not have been willing to become Mrs. Straighten.

"I'll sell first and look into the ethics of the thing afterward," Tom exclaimed as he sat down to write a letter accepting the charge and the terms. It was a very carefully written letter, although it contained only six lines besides the superscription and signature. Tom rewrote it four times before it seemed enough business-like, decorous, and gentlemanly—just enough—not the least shade more. Then he wrote hasty notes to all possible buyers in the Territory, announcing that he was agent for the sale of Double Row Ranch. Men who could promptly be reached by mail were only part of those who came to mind; in an hour he was off on horseback to see others. Perhaps Straighten would learn what a fool he had made of himself, and sell in New York, where there are men who apparently know the value of everything on the face of the earth and are willing to buy whatever is offered at a sacrifice. In such case of prior sale, no power of attorney would save Tom; could it be that the scheming little rascal was devising just such a trick to humiliate his rival?

Fear, hope, suspicion, love, all lent Tom wings and sharpened his wits. In three days he had sold Double Row ranch for a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Before the ink was fairly dry on the drafts and notes given in payment, Tom was galloping to a telegraph station, from which he wired Straighten: "Sale concluded. Please wire on receipt of this. Am waiting at station." Two hours later—they seemed two years, as Tom ground the planks of the station platform under his heavy boots—came the reply: "Delighted to hear it Thanks for promptness."

Tom waved the dispatch triumphantly in the air and shouted: "Now for home—and her."

Three days later, and he had sold his own ranch to one of his men, the man had no money, but Tom insisted that notes would be entirely satisfactory. No sooner was he on an East-bound train than he began to count the hours, but his conscience soon took him in hand and made him very uncomfortable. The more he discussed the difference between the "upset price" and the sum he had obtained for Double Row, the less he seemed able to accept it, and he was still so undecided when he reached New York that he wondered whether, after all, honesty in business affairs was merely a relative term. His uncertainty compelled him to seek Straighten before he had been an hour in the city. The old exasperating look of inquiry shot from the little man's eyes as the two stood face to face and the minister offered his hand.

"Mr. Straighten," said Tom, bluntly, "you undervalued your property. I succeeded in getting——"

"Don't tell me the amount, sir, please; then I'll have nothing to regret. If the excess was large, allow me to congratulate you, with all my heart."

"But," protested Tom, who had decided to suggest a compromise, on the basis of an even division, "you should not be unjust to yourself through ignorance. I got——"

"I beg your pardon, my dear sir," interrupted the minister, "but this is a matter of conscience. I could in no circumstances take more than I agreed to receive. Kindly allow my decision to be final. I must insist upon it as my right."

"As you will, then," said Tom, taking from his pocket a check for the sum fixed by the minister, and indorsing it.

"You have my hearty thanks besides," said the little man, as Tom rose to depart. "It was an abrupt proposition to make to a gentleman with whom my acquaintance was so slight, and I was greatly relieved in mind when I learned you had accepted it—greatly relieved. Mayn't I offer you some refreshment—no? I would like to suggest—but never mind; some other time may be more appropriate for what I would say."

The minister rubbed his hands after the manner of the stage clergyman, and the old smiling grin—or grinning smile—came into his face, and Tom abruptly departed, telling himself that he wondered if that little rascal had captured Ettie Raytham after all and had waived the excess as conscience-money. Tom ground his teeth and told himself there was one way of finding out. He looked at his watch; it was nearly eight of the evening. He hurried to the hotel to which he had sent his trunks, dressed carefully, and hurried out to learn his fate.

•••••

"You silly fellow!" said Ettie, an hour later, "had you no eyes that you did not see I loved you?"

"I suppose I was a fool," Tom admitted, "but that little preacher looked at me so peculiarly whenever we met, and showed so plainly that he adored you, that I——"

"Do you mean Mr. Straighten? I never had a more devoted admirer, but neither did you. He has sung your praises persistently ever since he saw that I liked you—and declined the honor of his name."

"What? Why did he do that?"

"Possibly," said Ettie, after a moment, in which a grave yet sweet expression filled her face, "there are some men who love a woman for her sake instead of their own."

"But why did he always eye me so curiously?"

Ettie laughed archly and answered: "Perhaps he wondered why you could delay so persistently. I'm sure that I did."

Tom's surprise grew as time went on, though he soon became the little minister's warmest admirer and friend. A few weeks after his marriage he said:

"Straighten, my dear fellow, do tell me what reason you had for the ridiculously low estimate you put upon that ranch of yours?"

"Reason enough," said the little man, with dignity: "’twas to please a woman whom I had loved."

Then Tom's surprise became great enough to outlast his life.