A Woman Intervenes by Robert Barr

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'Wouldn't you like to take me by the shoulders and put me out of the
room, Mr. Wentworth?'

'I'd like to take you by the shoulders and shake you.'

'Ah! that would be taking a liberty, and could not be permitted. We must
leave punishment to the law, you know, although I do think a man should
be allowed to turn an objectionable visitor into the street.'

'Miss Brewster,' cried the young man earnestly, leaning over the table
towards her, 'why don't you abandon your horrible inquisitorial
profession, and put your undoubted talents to some other use?'

'What, for instance?'

'Oh, anything.'

Jennie rested her fair cheek against her open palm again, and looked at
the dingy window. There was a long silence between them--Wentworth
absorbed in watching her clear-cut profile and her white throat, his
breath quickening as he feasted his eyes on her beauty.

'I have always got angry,' she said at last, in a low voice with the quiver
of a suppressed sigh in it, 'when other people have said that to me--I wonder
why it is I merely feel hurt and sad when you say it? It is so easy to
say, "Oh, anything"--so easy, so easy. You are a man, with the strength
and determination of a man, yet you have met with disappointments and
obstacles that have required all your courage to overcome. Every man has,
and with most men it is a fight until the head is gray, and the brain
weary with the ceaseless struggle. The world is utterly merciless; it
will trample you down relentlessly if it can, and if your vigilance
relaxes for a moment, it will steal your crust and leave you to starve.
Every time I think of this incessant sullen contest, with no quarter
given or taken, I shudder, and pray that I may die before I am at the
mercy of the pitiless world. When I came to London, I saw, for the first
time in my life, that hopeless, melancholy promenade of the sandwich-men;
human wreckage drifting along the edge of the street, as if cast there by
the rushing tide sweeping past them. They--they seemed to me like a
tottering procession of the dead; and on their backs was the announcement
of a play that was making all London roar with laughter. The awful comedy
and tragedy of it! Well, I simply couldn't stand it. I had to run up a
side-street and cry like the little fool I was, right in broad daylight.'

Jennie paused and tried to laugh, but the effort ended in a sound
suspiciously like a sob. She dashed her hand with quick impatience across
her eyes, from which Wentworth had never taken his own, seeing them
become dim, as if the light from the window proved too strong for them,
and finally fill as she ceased to speak. Searching ineffectually about
her dress for a handkerchief, which lay on the table beside her parasol
unnoticed by either, Jennie went on with some difficulty:

'Well, these poor forlorn creatures were once men--men who have gone
down--and if the world is so hard on a man with all his strength and
resourcefulness, think--think what it is for a woman thrown into this
inhuman turmoil--a woman without friends--without money--flung among
these relentless wolves--to live if she can--or--to die--if she can.'

The girl's voice broke, and she buried her face in her arms, which rested
on the table.

Wentworth sprang to his feet and came round to where she sat.

'Jennie,' he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. The girl, without
looking up, shook off the hand that touched her.

'Go back to your place,' she cried, in a smothered voice. 'Leave me
alone.'

'Jennie,' persisted Wentworth.

The young woman rose from her chair and faced him, stepping back a pace.

'Don't you hear what I say? Go back and sit down. I came here to talk
business, not to make a fool of myself. It's all your fault, and I hate
you for it--you and your silly questions.'

But the young man stood where he was, in spite of the dangerous sparkle
that shone in his visitor's wet eyes. A frown gathered on his brow.

'Jennie,' he said slowly, 'are you playing with me again?'

The swift anger that blazed up in her face, reddening her cheeks, dried
the tears.

'How _dare_ you say such a thing to me!' she cried hotly. 'Do you flatter
yourself that, because I came here to talk business, I have also some
personal interest in you? Surely even _your_ self-conceit doesn't run so
far as that!'

Wentworth stood silent, and Miss Brewster picked up her parasol,
scattering, in her haste, the other articles on the floor. If she
expected Wentworth to put them on the table again, she was disappointed,
for, although his eyes were upon her, his thoughts were far away upon the
Atlantic Ocean.

'I shall not stay here to be insulted,' she cried resentfully, bringing
Wentworth's thoughts back with a rush to London again. 'It is intolerable
that you should use such an expression to me. Playing with you indeed!'

'I had no intention of insulting you, Miss Brewster.'

'What is it but an insult to use such a phrase? It implies that I either
care for you, or----'

'And do you?'

'Do I what?'

'Do you care for me?'

Jennie shook out the lace fringes of her parasol; and smoothed them with
some precision. Her eyes were bent on what she was doing; consequently,
they did not meet those of her questioner.

'I care for you as a friend, of course,' she said at last, still giving
much attention to the parasol. 'If I had not looked on you as a friend, I
would not have come here to consult with you, would I?'

'No, I suppose not. Well, I am sorry I used the words that displeased
you, and now, if you will permit it, we will go on with the
consultation.'

'It wasn't a pretty thing to say.'

'I'm afraid I'm not good at saying pretty things.'

'You used to be.'

The parasol being arranged to her liking, she glanced up at him.

'Still, you said you were sorry, and that's all a man can say--or a
woman either, for that's what I said myself when I came in. Now, if you
will pick up those things from the floor--thanks--we will talk about
the mine.'

Wentworth seated himself again, and said;

'Well, what is it you wish to know about the mine?'

'Nothing at all.'

'But you said you wanted information.'

'What a funny reason to give! And how a man misses all the fine points of
a conversation! No; just because I asked for information, you might have
known that was not what I really wanted.'

'I'm afraid I'm very stupid. I hate to ask boldly what you did want, but
I would like to know.'

'I wanted a vote of confidence. I told you I was sorry because of a
certain episode. I wished to see if you trusted me, and I found you
didn't. There!'

'I think that was hardly a fair test. You see, the facts did not belong
to me alone.'

Miss Brewster sighed, and slowly shook her head.

'That wouldn't have made the least difference if you had really trusted
me.'

'Oh, I say! You couldn't expect a man to----'

'Yes I could.'

'What, merely a friend?'

Miss Brewster nodded.

'Well, all I can say,' remarked Wentworth, with a laugh, 'is that
friendship has made greater strides in the States than it has in
this country.'

Before Jennie could reply, the useful boy knocked at the door and brought
in a tea-tray, which he placed before his master; then silently departed,
closing the door noiselessly.

'May I offer you a cup of tea?'

'Please. What a curious custom this drinking of tea is in business
offices! I think I shall write an article on "A Nation of Tea-tipplers."
If I were an enemy of England, instead of being its greatest friend, I
would descend with my army on this country between the hours of four and
five in the afternoon, and so take the population unawares while it was
drinking tea. What would you do if the enemy came down on you during such
a sacred national ceremony?'

'I would offer her a cup of tea,' replied Wentworth, suiting the action
to the phrase.

'Mr. Wentworth,' said the girl archly, 'you're improving. That remark was
distinctly good. Still, you must remember that I come as a friend, not as
an enemy. Did you ever read the "Babes in the Wood"? It is a most
instructive, but pathetic, work of fiction. You remember the wicked
uncle, surely? Well, you and Mr. Kenyon remind me of the "Babes," poor
innocent little things! and London--this part of it--is the dark and
pathless forest. I am the bird hovering about you, waiting to cover you
with leaves. The leaves, to do any good, ought to be cheques fluttering
down on you, but, alas! I haven't any. If negotiable cheques only grew on
trees, life would not be so difficult.'

Miss Brewster sipped her tea pensively, and Wentworth listened
contentedly to the musical murmur of her voice. Such an entrancing effect
had it on him that he paid less heed to what she said than a man ought
when a lady is speaking. The tea-drinking had added a touch of
domesticity to the _tete-a-tete_ which rather went to the head of the
young man. He clinched and unclinched his hand out of sight under the
table, and felt the moisture on his palm. He hoped he would be able to
retain control over himself, but the difficulty of his task almost
overcame him when she now and then appealed to him with glance or
gesture, and he felt as if he must cry out, 'My girl, my girl, don't do
that, if you expect me to stay where I am.'

'I see you are not paying the slightest attention to what I am saying,'
she said, pushing the cup from her. She rested her arms on the table,
leaning slightly forward, and turning her face full upon him: 'I can tell
by your eyes that you are thinking of something else.'

'I assure you,' said George, drawing a deep breath, 'I am listening with
intense interest.'

'Well, that's right, for what I am going to say is important. Now, to
wake you up, I will first tell you all about your mine; you will
understand thereafter that I did not need to ask anyone for information
regarding it.'

Here, to Wentworth's astonishment, she gave a rapid and accurate sketch
of the negotiations and arrangements between the three partners, and the
present position of affairs.

'How do you know all this?' he asked.

'Never mind that; and you mustn't ask how I know what I am now going to
tell you, but you must believe it implicitly, and act upon it promptly.
Longworth is fooling both you and Kenyon. He is marking time, so that
your option will run out; then he will pay cash for the mine at the
original price, and you and Kenyon will be left to pay two-thirds of the
debt incurred. Where is Kenyon?'

'He has gone to America.'

'That's good. Cable him to get the option renewed. You can then try to
form the company yourselves in London. If he can't obtain a renewal, you
have very little time to get the cash together, and if you are not able
to do that, then you lose everything. This is what I came to tell you,
although I have been a long time about it. Now I must go.'

She rose, gathered her belongings from the table, and stood with the
parasol pressed against her. Wentworth came around to where she was
standing, his face paler than usual, probably because of the news he had
heard. One hand was grasped tightly around one wrist in front of him. He
felt that he should thank her for what she had done, but his lips were
dry, and, somehow, the proper words were not at his command.

She, holding her fragile lace-fringed parasol against her with one arm,
was adjusting her long neatly fitting glove, which she had removed before
tea. A button, one of many, was difficult to fasten, and as she
endeavoured to put it in its place, her sleeve fell away, showing a round
white arm above the glove.

'You see,' she said, a little breathlessly, her eyes upon her glove, 'it
is a very serious situation, and time is of immense importance.'

'I realize that.'

'It would be such a pity to lose everything now, when you have had so
much trouble and worry.'

'It would.'

'And I think that whatever is done should be done quickly. You should act
at once and with energy.'

'I am convinced that is so.'

'Of course it is. You are of too trusting a nature; you should be more
suspicious, then you wouldn't be tricked as you have been.'

'No. The trouble is I have been too sceptical, but that is past. I won't
be again.'

'What are you talking about?' she said, looking quickly up at him. 'Don't
you know you'll lose the mine if----'

'Hang the mine!' he cried, flinging his wrist free, and clasping her to
him before she could step back or move from her place. 'There is
something more important than mines or money.'

The parasol broke with a sharp snap, and the girl murmured 'Oh!' but the
murmur was faint.

'Never mind the parasol,' he said, pulling it from between them and
tossing it aside; 'I'll get you another.'

'Reckless man!' she gasped; 'you little know how much it cost, and I
think, you know, I ought to have been consulted--in an--in an--affair of
this kind--George.'

'There was no time. I acted upon your own advice--promptly. You are not
angry, Jennie, my dear girl, are you?'

'I suppose I'm not, though I think I ought to be; especially as I know
only too well that I held my heart in my hand the whole time, almost
offering it to you. I hope you won't treat it as you have treated the
sunshade.'

He kissed her for answer.

'You see,' she said, putting his necktie straight, 'I liked you from the
very first, far more than I knew at the time. If you--I'm not trying to
justify myself, you know--but if you had, well, just coaxed me a little
yourself, I would never have sent that cable message. You seemed to give
up everything, and you sent Kenyon to me, and that made me angry. I
expected you to come back to me, but you never came.'

'I was a stupid fool. I always am when I get a fair chance.'

'Oh no, you're not, but you do need someone to take care of you.'

She suddenly held him at arm's length from her.

'You don't imagine for a moment, George Wentworth, that I came here
to-day for--for this.'

'Certainly not!' cried the honest young man, with much indignant fervour,
drawing her again towards him.

'Then it's all right. I couldn't bear to have you think such a thing,
especially--well, I'll tell you why some day. But I do wish you had a
title. Do they ever ennoble accountants in this country, George?'

'No; they knight only rich fools.'

'Oh, I'm so glad of that; for you'll get rich on the mine, and I'll be
Lady Wentworth yet.'

Then she drew his head down until her laughing lips touched his.

CHAPTER XXXII.

Although the steamship that took Kenyon to America was one of the
speediest in the Atlantic service, yet the voyage was inexpressibly
dreary to him. He spent most of his time walking up and down the deck,
thinking about the other voyage of a few weeks before. The one
consolation of his present trip was its quickness.

When he arrived at his hotel in New York, he asked if there was any
message there for him, and the clerk handed him an envelope, which he
tore open. It was a cable despatch from Wentworth, with the words:

'Longworth at Windsor. Proceed to Ottawa immediately. Get option renewed.
Longworth duping us.'

John knitted his brows and wondered where Windsor was. The clerk, seeing
his perplexity, asked if he could be of any assistance.

'I have received this cablegram, but don't quite understand it. Where
is Windsor?'

'Oh, that means the Windsor Hotel. Just up the street.'

Kenyon registered, told the clerk to assign him a room, and send his
baggage up to it when it came. Then he walked out from the hotel and
sought the Windsor.

He found that colossal hostelry, and was just inquiring of the clerk
whether a Mr. Longworth was staying there, when that gentleman appeared
at the desk, took some letters and his key.

Kenyon tapped him on the shoulder.

Young Longworth turned round with more alacrity than he usually
displayed, and gave a long whistle of surprise when he saw who it was.

'In the name of all the gods,' he cried, 'what are _you_ doing here?'
Then, before Kenyon could reply, he said: 'Come up to my room.'

They went to the elevator, rose a few stories, and passed down an
apparently endless hall, carpeted with some noiseless stuff that gave no
echo of the footfall. Longworth put the key into his door and opened it.
They entered a large and pleasant room.

'Well,' he said, 'this _is_ a surprise. What is the reason of your being
here? Anything wrong in London?'

'Nothing wrong, so far as I am aware. We received no cablegram from you,
and thought there might be some hitch in the business; therefore I came.'

'Ah, I see. I cabled over to your address, and said I was staying at the
Windsor for a few days. I sent a cablegram almost as long as a letter,
but it didn't appear to do any good.'

'No, I did not receive it.'

'And what did you expect was wrong over here?'

'That I did not know. I knew you had time to get to Ottawa and see the
mine in twelve days from London. Not hearing from you in that time, and
knowing the option was running out, both Wentworth and I became anxious,
and so I came over.'

'Exactly. Well, I'm afraid you've had your trip for nothing.'

'What do you mean? Is not the mine all I said it was?'

'Oh, the mine is all right; all I meant was, there was really no
necessity for your coming.'

'But, you know, the option ends in a very short time.'

'Well, the option, like the mine, is all right. I think you might quite
safely have left it in my hands.'

It must be admitted that John Kenyon began to feel he had acted with
unreasonable rashness in taking his long voyage.

'Is Mr. Melville here with you?'

'Melville has returned home. He had not time to stay longer. All he
wanted was to satisfy himself about the mine. He was satisfied, and he
has gone home. If you were in London now, you would be able to see him.'

'Did you meet Mr. Von Brent?'

'Yes, he took us to the mine.'

'And did you say anything about the option to him?'

'Well, we had some conversation about it. There will be no trouble about
the option. What Von Brent wants is to sell his mine, that is all.'
There was a few moments' silence, then Longworth said: 'When are you
going back?'

'I do not know. I think I ought to see Von Brent. I am not at all easy
about leaving matters as they are. I think I ought to get a renewal of
the option. It is not wise to risk things as we are doing. Von Brent
might at any time get an offer for his mine, just as we are forming our
company, and, of course, if the option had not been renewed, he would
sell to the first man who put down the money. As you say, all he wants is
to sell his mine.'

Longworth was busy opening his letters, and apparently paying very little
attention to what Kenyon said. At last, however, he spoke:

'If I were you--if you care to take my advice--I would go straight back
to England. You will do no good here. I merely say this to save you any
further trouble, time, and expense.'

'Don't you think it would be as well to get a renewal of the option?'

'Oh, certainly; but, as I told you before, it was not at all necessary
for you to come over. I may say, furthermore, that Von Brent will not
renew the option without a handsome sum down, to be forfeited if the
company is not formed. Have you the money to pay him?'

'No, I have not.'

'Very well, then, why waste time and money going to Ottawa?' Young Mr.
Longworth arched his eye-brows and gazed at John through his eyeglass. 'I
will let you have my third of the money, if that will do any good.'

'How much money does Von Brent want?'

'How should I know? To tell you the truth, Mr. Kenyon--and truth never
hurts, or oughtn't to--I don't at all like this visit to America. You and
Mr. Wentworth have been good enough to be suspicious about me from the
very first. You have not taken any pains to conceal it, either of you.
Your appearance in America at this particular juncture is nothing more
nor less than an insult to me. I intend to receive it as such.'

'I have no intention of insulting you,' said Kenyon, 'if you are dealing
fairly with me.'

'There it is again. That remark is an insult. Everything you say is a
reflection upon me. I wish to have nothing more to say to you. I give you
my advice that it is better for you, and cheaper, to go back to London.
You need not act on it unless you like. I have nothing further to say to
you and so this interview may be considered closed.'

'And how about the mine?'

'I imagine the mine will take care of itself.'

'Do you think this is courteous treatment of a business partner?'

'My dear sir, I do not take my lessons in courtesy from you. Whether you
are pleased or displeased with my treatment of you is a matter of supreme
indifference to me. I am tired of living in an atmosphere of suspicion,
and I have done with it--that is all. You think some game is being played
on you--both you and Mr. Wentworth think that--and yet you haven't the
"cuteness," as they call it here, or sharpness, to find it out. Now, a
man who has suspicions he cannot prove to be well founded should keep
those suspicions to himself until he can prove them. That is my advice
to you. I wish you a good-day.'

John Kenyon walked back to his hotel with more misgivings than ever. He
wrote a letter to Wentworth detailing the conversation, telling him
Melville had sailed for home, and advising him to see that gentleman when
he arrived. He stayed in New York that night, and took the morning train
to Montreal. In due time he arrived at Ottawa, and called on Von Brent.
He found that gentleman in his chambers, looking as if he had never left
the room since the option was signed. Von Brent at first did not
recognise his visitor, but after gazing a moment at him he sprang from
his chair and held out his hand.

'I really did not know you,' he said; 'you have changed a great deal
since I saw you last. You look haggard, and not at all well. What is the
matter with you?'

'I do not think anything is the matter. I am in very good health, thank
you; I have had a few business worries, that is all.'

'Ah, yes,' said Von Brent; 'I am very sorry indeed you failed to form
your company.'

'Failed!' echoed Kenyon.

'Yes; you haven't succeeded, have you?'

'Well, I don't know about that; we are in a fair way to succeed. You met
Longworth and Melville, who came out to see the mine? I saw Longworth in
New York, and he told me you had taken them out there.'

'Are they interested with you in the mine?'

'Certainly; they are helping me to form the company.'

Von Brent seemed amazed.

'I did not understand that at all. In fact, I understood the exact
opposite. I thought you had attempted to form a company, and failed. They
showed me an attack in one of the financial papers upon you, and said
that killed your chances of forming a company in London. They were here,
apparently, on their own business.'

'And what was their business?'

'To buy the mine.'

'Have they bought it?'

'Practically, yes. Of course, while your option holds good I cannot sell
it, but that, as you know, expires in a very few days.'

Kenyon, finding his worst suspicions confirmed, seemed speechless with
amazement, and in his agony mopped from his brow the drops collected
there.

'You appear to be astonished at this,' said Von Brent.

'I am very much astonished.'

'Well, you cannot blame me. I have acted perfectly square in the matter.
I had no idea Longworth, and the gentleman who was with him, had any
connection with you whatever. Their attention had been drawn to the mine,
they said, by that article. They had investigated it and appeared to be
satisfied there was something in it--in the mine, I mean, not in the
article. They said they had attended a meeting which you had called, but
it was quite evident you were not going to be able to form the company.
So they came here and made me a cash offer for the mine. They have
deposited twenty thousand pounds at the bank here, and on the day your
option closes they will give me a cheque for the amount.'

'It serves me right,' said Kenyon. 'I have been cheated and duped. I had
grave suspicions of it all along, but I did not act upon them. I have
been too timorous and cowardly. This man Longworth has made a pretence of
helping me to form a company. Everything he has done has been to delay
me. He came out here, apparently, in the interests of the company I was
forming, and now he has got the option for himself.'

'Yes, he has,' said Von Brent. 'I may say I am very sorry indeed for the
turn affairs have taken. Of course, as I have told you, I had no idea how
the land lay. You see, you had placed no deposit with me, and I had to
look after my own interests. However, the option is open for a few days
more, and I will not turn the mine over to them till the last minute of
the time has expired. Isn't there any chance of your getting the money
before then?'

'Not the slightest.'

'Well, you see, in that case I cannot help myself. I am bound by a legal
document to turn the mine over to them on receipt of the twenty thousand
pounds the moment your option is ended. Everything is done legally, and I
am perfectly helpless in the matter.'

'Yes, I see that,' said John. 'Good-bye.'

He went to the telegraph-office and sent a cablegram.

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