# The Great Invention

[The Adventures of Mrs. Middleton's Husband #6] Extracted from Green Book magazine, Jan 1919, pp. 122–133. Accompanying illustrations by R. L. Lambdin omitted.
PETER MIDDLETON adored his wealthy and charming wife—but he didn’t like being merely “Mrs. Middileton's husband.” So he left her, vowing not to come back till he could return her equal. This is the sixth and last of the stories of Peter’s adventures.
The Great Invention
By I. A. R. Wylie
Illustrated by R. L. Lambdin
HIS real name was Cecil Arthur Ash, but they called him the Ghost. He had haunted the firm of Blankley & Co. for nearly thirty years at the rate of forty shillings a week and had filled every vacant post as it occurred and had been ousted out of it again when convenient. He had never complained—it had never occurred to him to demand an increase in salary for his miscellaneous labors. For, as became a ghost, he was by nature timid. But there was Mrs. Ash. Mrs. Ash was not timid, And nobody had ever called Mrs. Ash a ghost. She was a reticent woman, but when she spoke, her words were as inexorable as the decrees of Fate.
“You've moiled and toiled for Blankley's for the best part of your life,” she said briefly as she helped her husband into his green-hued overcoat. “In a few years it'll be too late, and I mean to live a bit before it's all over. You'll ask for a rise, Arthur.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Ash. He looked at her helplessly over the rims of his spectacles, but he did not protest. Instead, he set out with dogged patience on his half-hour's trudge to the office. There arrived, he hung up the green-hued overcoat and moth-eaten top-hat, and climbed the steep stairs to the manager's office with a beating heart and a brain distracted with fragments of a lengthy speech of self-justification.
For he had never in all his life disobeyed anyone—least of all Mrs. Ash.
Mr. Benjamin Beverley, manager of Blankley's, nodded at him from behind the ramifications of the massive mahogany bureau.
“Good morning, Ash. Anything special?”
“Yes sir.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I wondered, sir, if it would be possible—I've served the firm faithfully for thirty years, sir—”
“What? A rise, eh?”
“Yes sir.”
“D'you think you're worth it?”
“No sir.”
That was no part of his. carefully prepared speech. But no one had ever asked his opinion before, and he had been startled into an unwished-for truthfulness. The manager considered him indulgently. Compared with the head clerk he was as a twenty-four-volt electric lamp to a gas jet, a resplendent individual who radiated prosperity from the top of the sleek head down to the shiny boots, via a diamond tie-pin and a heavy gold watch-chain. Facially, however, there was less difference between them. Mr. Ash's countenance was yellow with panic, Mr. Benjamin Beverley's with weariness and a suppressed anxiety half concealed by an acquired air of suave cheerfulness.
“Sit down, Ash.”
THE head clerk sat down. He had never dared do such a thing in the office before, and he balanced himself on the edge of the chair, his thin hands spread out on the knees of his threadbare trousers, his eyes fixed apparently on the square face opposite, in reality on a fast-materializing semi-detached villa with a real garden and a possible chicken-run, not to mention a social circle. Beverley bent forward, his bulldog chin in the palm of a powerful, ruthless-looking hand, his cold, steel-gray eyes watchful and intent.
“So you want a rise, Ash,” he said meditatively. “Thinking of your old age and the wife and kids, eh?”
“Yes sir.”
“Quite right. You've served, as you say, faithfully for thirty years and have a right to be considered. There are a lot like you, Ash. I was just reckoning as you came in that Blankley keeps a thousand men and women on the same terms—men and women who serve faithfully and who look to Blankley's for the present and the future. It's a big responsibility, Ash.”
The Ghost looked up timidly. This reflective mood in a man who never wasted words was unusual and rather terrifying.
“Yes sir?”
“You're attached to the firm, Ash?”
“Yes sir.”
Beverley shifted his position. Figuratively he seemed to envelop the head-clerk, to overshadow him with the massiveness of his personality.
“And suppose I told you that Blankley's wasn't worth so many thousand farthings—that Blankley's was on its last legs, and that in a month or so you and I and all these men and women will be thrown out without a hope or a chance in the world—what would you say, Ash?”
The head clerk said nothing. He simply stared stupidly into the tense face opposite him, and Beverley went on with a sudden lowering of the voice: “You wouldn't believe it, eh? But if I gave you my word? Suppose I told you that there was something you could do to save Blankley's—all these men and women, yourself, your family—me—would you do it?”
“Yes,” said Ash. His watery blue eyes shone with the nearest approach to live enthusiasm that they had known for many years. “I'd do it, sir.”
“On your word?”
“Yes sir.”
Beverley touched the bell on the table.
“You can do it now,” he said. “Blankley's and I trust you, Ash.” To the answering office-boy he added: “Send in Peter Middleton.” Then he plunged into a close study of some papers before him.
The Ghost sat motionless, awe-struck, his brain awhirl. The thing that had come to him was stupendous, incredible. He was as utterly taken aback as a child who invokes the fairies and finds Queen Mab perched on the hearth-rug. Ash, Cecil Arthur Ash, the insignificant, the Ghost, was to save Blankley's and with Blankley's himself and a thousand others. By the time the door opened again the semi-detached villa had become a mansion, Mr. Beverley had vanished and Mr. Ash had appropriated the managerial chair together with the diamond tie-pin and the watch-chain.
“Peter Middleton, if you please, sir.”
MR. ASH perceived that the young man who entered was good-looking and well made. His clothes were shabby, but they fitted him with a certain elegance never obtained by Mr. Ash's own special reach-me-downs. There was also a suspicion of a recent oil-smear across the lean cheek which, if unromantic, bespoke recent toil and lent him an air of serious purpose. He bowed gravely to both men, and Beverley started as though his visitor was the last person on earth whom he had expected.
“Oh, yes—Middleton, of course. Come in, will you?”
The young man who had already come in accepted the further invitation with a slight smile. Beverley waved an introductory hand.
“Ash, this is Middleton, a new hand in the engine-testing department. Middleton, this is Mr. Ash, my expert. Pray be seated.” He gave the Ghost a quick glance. “Mr. Ash and I were talking about you as you came in, weren't we, Ash?”
“Yes sir.” The head clerk answered mechanically. The habit of living in a meek affirmative had become second nature to him and the idea of a denial was as far from him as the poles.
“It is very kind of you,” said Peter Middleton sincerely.
“Not at all. It's a matter of business. We are quite aware that extraordinary results have been obtained from the most unlikely beginnings, and consequently Mr. Ash and I have given your little invention a close examination. Personally, I lay no claim to expert knowledge, but I have the most complete confidence in Mr. Ash's judgment. Mr. Ash has just given me his opinion, and I am prepared to make you an offer.”
“I am awfully grateful sir,” said Middleton. New color mounted his cheeks, and his eyes sparkled. Instinctively he touched the drawings lying on the table with a loving, protecting hand. “Awfully—grateful,” he repeated earnestly.
“Don't mention it. It's a wild-cat experiment, but experiments have to be made, and the firm must take risks. I am empowered to offer you twenty pounds down, Middleton.”
HE leaned back in his chair as though to view the effect of this munificence, but for the moment the effect was of a negative character. Middleton was staring full at him, and the flush had passed, leaving a white, tense look not altogether reassuring.
“You mean as an advance?” he said.
Beverley laughed good-humoredly.
“There is no question of an advance,” he said. “If there were, it would have to be on your side. I make you a generous offer for very doubtful goods. Take it or leave it—just as you like.”
“It is Mr. Ash's opinion that the thing is worth no more?”
The Ghost started. Two pairs of penetrating eyes were upon him, the one pleading, the other commanding. To his horror Middleton made a movement of almost passionate appeal.
“Mr. Ash, you're an expert—I feel that you're an honest man. Are you sure that the idea is so worthless? I beg of you—is that your serious verdict? So much depends on it. It is a matter of my whole life and the life of another—”
“Married, I suppose?” Beverley interrupted curtly.
Middleton nodded.
“Ah, you young men! Reckless, improvident marriages! I know.”
“The circumstances are unusual!” Middleton exclaimed fiercely.
“They always are, my friend.” Beverley shrugged his shoulders. “I'm sorry, Middleton. I've done my best. Frankly, I shouldn't have made the offer if I hadn't realized that there were unusual circumstances in your case. I offer you twenty pounds to make a fresh start. I do so for another reason. The foreman of your department has complained of your incompetence. I can't ignore him. Vulgarly speaking—you're fired, Middleton. Try sheep-farming in Australia. That may suit you better.”
“You mean—I'm no good?”
“Not in this line, at any rate.”
There was a moment's silence.
“I'm waiting for Mr. Ash's answer,” said Middleton at last.
“I think I have given you Mr. Ash's answer,” said Beverley smoothly. “Have I not, Ash?”
The Ghost looked up.
“Yes sir.”
“I think that settles the matter.”
MIDDLETON nodded. He was very white and quiet now, and he pushed the drawings across the table with a steady hand.
“Yes, that settles the matter. You can have these, Mr. Beverley. I make you a present of them. If they are worthless—well, I don't want money for them. I'll take your advice—I'll try sheep-farming. That may suit my capacities better” He turned away with a hard laugh. “Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon, Middleton. I'm very sorry—”
The door slammed to. Beverley set his great shoulders against it. He was breathing heavily like a man who has won a hard race. “You've done it, Ash,” he said. “You've done it.”
“I don't understand, sir—I don't understand—”
“You don't need to. But we've saved Blankley's between us—”
“You mean—”
“Why, man! That thing's worth thousands. The market's been waiting for it—I saw that at a glance. It will give us all a fresh start—”
“You cheated him, sir!”
“We cheated him, my dear Ash!”
The Ghost rose unsteadily to his feet. His underlip was quivering. There were tears in his weak eyes. He took an unsteady step toward the door, and Beverley stood aside to let him pass.
“Where are you going?”
“I'm going to tell him the truth,” Mr. Ash said tremulously. “He trusted me—he said I was honest—and—and I've ruined him. Don't you realize—think of his young wife—perhaps starving—I can't do it, sir, I can't.”
His hand was on the knob. Beverley did not move. His eyes sparkled.
“Remember your own wife, Ash; remember the thousands. What's one young fool compared to all that? Remember Blankley's!”
"The Ghost's hand dropped to his side. He turned dazedly. He saw that Beverley was stretching a slip of paper toward him—a check.
“For the first quarter as undermanager,” said Beverley, smiling.
The Ghost dropped into the nearest chair with his face buried in his hands.
“WALK ten miles a day, knock off five courses of each meal and stop thinking about yourself,” said Dr. Gregory. “Good morning.”
“But, Doctor, I assure you, the palpitations—”
“Fudge!” “He banged the bell on the table beside him. “Next, please!”
Her Ladyship, with her flounces and palpitations, was swept out by an inexorable page-boy at one door while at another an equally elegant and healthy-looking person was ushered in.
Dr. Gregory looked up at the newcomer with a snarl.
“Oh, it's you, is it?” he said rudely.
“Yes, it's me.”
“What's the matter? Grammar out of order?”
“Yes; I'm suffering from split infinitives and a lost husband.”
“Oh! said Dr. Gregory. He leaned back in his chair and pushed his glasses off his nose onto his forehead. “I believe I know you,” he added, but without any particular gratification.
“I should hope so—I'm Peter Middleton's wife.” She took out a minute gold puff-box and lifting her veil, powdered a small and attractive nose with artistic exactitude. “I've been crying, and that always makes my nose red. It doesn't matter, does it? One has no secrets from one's doctor.”
“So it seems. What have you been crying about?”
She looked at him brightly.
“About my husband. I've just seen him work. It was so pathetic that I wept all the way here. Poor Peter!”
“And pray what was poor Peter doing?”
“He was trying to put a machine together. Anything quite so dirty and hot and disreputable, I have never seen. I nearly fainted.”
“Have you come here for sal volatile?”
“Figuratively—yes.” She replaced the puff-box in her gold bag and looked at him with sudden and complete gravity. “Do you remember the last time I was here, Doctor?”
“H'm—yes, I think I do.”
“I cried. I terrified you out of your life. Well, if anything happens to aggravate me now, I shall burst into floods.”
“My dear madam—” The hand which had instinctively snatched at the bell fell powerless. Dr. Gregory stared at her in panic-stricken dismay.
“You deserve that I should have hysterics,” she added blandly.
“In heaven's name why?”
“It's all your fault.”
“What is?”
“It is.”
BEFORE this cryptic utterance Dr. Gregory became speechless. Mrs. Middleton regarded him with increasing severity. “You've taken my husband from me,” she said. “You've broken up a happy home. You've broken my heart.”
“Bosh!” A tear immediately quivered on the end of a long eyelash, and he added hastily: “I mean—eh—I don't understand. If you'd only be a little more explicit, my dear madam.”
“I'm coming to that. About a year ago I came to you for advice. You were my husband's best friend, and I knew something was the matter with him. You told me I was the matter with him. You told me I was ruining his character and his health with my money. I believe you said 'damned money'—”
“I didn't.”
“Yes, you did. And I forgave you because you were quite right. I was ruining him. I saw that quite clearly. So I did the only thing I could think of—I cut him off with a shilling. I said horrid things to him and sent him away furious, vowing he'd never come back until he'd earned enough to buy me up twice over and all that kind of nonsense. Since then I've lived an awful life. I've had to follow him everywhere incognito, helping him out of one mess after another and setting whole armies of his protégés on their feet. At the present moment he's as strong as a horse, but I don't believe he's earned a penny. He invented something or other, and for a time I had hopes; but now that's no good and I'm sick of it—perfectly sick of it. I want my husband. Dr. Gregory, I insist on having him back.”
“Then have him back!” he burst in testily.
“I can't. He wont come back. You know he's as obstinate as a mule. He's made up his mind not to touch a penny of my money again, and all that. I've tried to explain. I told him that all I did was done for the sake of his health, but he wont believe me. He thinks I'm sorry for him. A year ago his liver was all wrong, and now it's his pride. One might as well argue with a grizzly bear. And—and my heart's breaking.”
“I thought you said it was broken.”
She smiled tearfully.
“We'll compromise. Let's call it cracked. And anyhow I'm just as miserable as I can be. What am I to do?”
DR. GREGORY growled, slid back in his chair and thrust out his short legs under the table after the fashion of ill-mannered schoolboys. He meant to be rude—he wanted to be rude. He detested females in general and this one in particular. Catching a glimpse of a pair of immaculate little feet, he glanced up hastily; encountered two very charming and pathetic eyes and took refuge in the ceiling.
“How am I to know?” he muttered.
“You ought to know. Think!”
“What?”
“I said, think!”
The man of science, the discoverer of three new diseases and one germ, stared at her in affronted bewilderment.
“My dear madam, I do think.”
“Well, then help me. Don't you see, Dr. Gregory, how awfully serious it is?” She leaned forward and actually laid a small, beautifully gloved hand on his. “Don't you see—it's not only my happiness that is at stake—it's Peter's, your friend's. I've kept my word to you—I've given him back his freedom, his independence, his health; but I can't give him up altogether—for his sake. Peter is miserable without me; you may not believe it—I suppose you can't.”
Dr. Gregory fidgeted.
“It seems to me just possible,” he admitted gruffly.
“Well, then help us both.”
“Both?” he echoed.
“John Peter Middleton and I.” She looked at him with brimming eyes. “John Peter Middleton came three months ago,” she said.
“My dear girl—Mrs. Middleton—and I never knew!”
“Very few people do. I did not want to coerce Peter into coming back—only now I can't bear it any longer!”
“Good gracious—I don't know what to say!”
“Think!” implored Mrs. Middleton.
HE glanced at the hand which still held his, made an effort to withdraw into safety and instead did something unprecedented. He patted her. It was not exactly a caress, but it was obviously meant to be one.
“My dear lady, don't cry. And look here; suppose your Peter was persuaded to come back, what do you suppose will happen? It will be the old trouble all over again. He'll worry himself into his grave over the money he hasn't earned and spend his days doling it out to the wrong people. At the end of six months he'll be the same mental and physical wreck he was. Have you thought of that?”
Mrs. Peter Middleton nodded. Her mouth was quivering, and Dr. Gregory got up abruptly and began a hasty promenade round his consulting-table. Mrs. Peter Middleton continued silent, but Dr. Gregory was fully aware that contrary to directions she was crying. He stared out of the window, disarranged some medical books and finally came back and put an awkward hand on her shoulder.
“Look here,” he blurted out. “You're—you're a—good sort—I mean—a nice—eh, little woman—I—eh, quite sympathize with Peter. I shall do my best, madam. I shall think.”
“Dr. Gregory!” She sprang up. For a moment the awful thought flashed across his mind that she might kiss him. Instead she merely clasped both hands and looked up at him with tearful, thankful eyes. “Oh, how good you are!”
“Fudge!” He frowned severely. “I'm Peter's friend. Having come to the conclusion that you may be necessary to Peter's happiness—”
“Oh, you have come to that conclusion?”
“I admit the possibility, madam. Please do not interrupt. I say, having arrived at this conclusion, I am prepared to devote my energies to a solution of the problem. I shall let you know the result to-night.”
“I shall think hard too,” said Mrs. Middleton.
“Pooh!” said Dr. Gregory.
“I DON'T know what's the matter with you, I'm sure,” said Mrs. Ash tartly. “If I hadn't lived twenty-five years with you, Arthur, I should say you had been drinking. Just look at your hand!”
Arthur Ash looked and muttered something about nerves.
“Nerves! Fiddlesticks! There's something wrong, Arthur. If this rise in your salary has anything underhand about it, you'd better own up—”
“My dear, whatever should make you think such ridiculous things?”
She brushed a speck of dust from the threadbare overcoat and tried to meet his eye. Mr. Ash appeared to find the crown of his hat a subject of great interest.
“You don't look honest,” she said bluntly. “You look mean, Arthur, and what's more, I believe you feel mean.”
“Mean!” His voice shook. “Haven't I given you everything you want? Thirty-five shillings a week extra and then to be insulted—”
Mrs. Ash kissed him. Her voice softened.
“My dear, I didn't want to be unkind. You're the best man in the world and deserve thirty-five pounds a week all the rest of your life, but I should be just as surprised if you got it. And you've been so strange of late. I've been frightened. You're not angry, are you?”
Never before in his life had he been allowed to feel injured. The feeling was almost luxurious. He glanced quickly at her hard, careworn face beside him.
“No, not angry—only hurt. A man expects his wife at least to trust him—”
“But I do trust you. Only—only I wanted you to know that I'd rather be in the gutter with you, honest, than in a real villa with our own servant and—and visiting-cards and knowing that you—we'd done wrong to anyone.”
“My dear!” he said huskily. They kissed each other again. It was very unusual, but she accompanied him to the gate and even watched him to the end of the road where he turned and waved back to her. Such a thing had not happened for twenty years.
THROUGHOUT his walk to the office Mr. Ash saw very little else than that pale face and the troubled eyes. He had not known her so gentle, so tender. Time and trouble had soured her, and this sudden change was almost painful. It frightened him. It was as though she knew. The thought was terrible. It sent him into the office more like a shadow than ever. It startled him into uttering an exclamation as he suddenly found himself face to face with Peter Middleton—Peter Middleton in greasy overalls, white and haggard-looking but with a very square chin and tight mouth.
“I thought you'd gone,” Ash said sharply.
“I'm going. This is my last day. I sail this evening.”
“Sail? Where to?”
“Australia. Steerage. I mean to try sheep-farming. Perhaps I shall be just good enough for that.”
Ash caught his breath. They were standing together in a narrow passage, and instinctively he put his hand against the wall for support. Middleton faced the light. There was a grim little smile about his mouth.
“It was awfully decent of Beverley to give me that money,” he said. “Otherwise I should be stranded. Nobody wants useless objects like myself about the place.”
Ash made no answer for a minute. He was not quite sure of his own voice, and when he did speak, it sounded unusually weak and tired.
“What about your wife, Middleton?” he said. “Is she going too?”
“No.”
“You don't mean to leave her—here?”
“Why not?” Middleton pulled out a handful of small coin. “There's three pounds, two shillings and two pence left. One can't go traveling with a wife on that.”
“You're deserting her!” said Mr. Ash tremulously.
“I've got to.”
“You're leaving her to starve!”—with increasing agitation.
“She wont do so badly without me as she would with me,” was the grim answer.
MR. ASH was silent, and Middleton, slipping out of his overalls, hung them up on the door.
“You're a lucky man, Ash,” he said. “You've got your wife and your home, and you've earned both honestly. I envy you. Good-by.”
“Stop!”
Middleton had opened the door. He turned sharply.
“What's the matter?”
“Don't go. I want you to wait a moment. I—I may have something to tell you. Wait in the counting-house. Promise me. It's of the utmost importance.”
“I don't understand. What is it? You look as though you had seen a ghost.”
“I—I believe I have—at any rate—I can't go on with this—”
He was gone, leaving Middleton to stare blankly after him.
Never before had any human being entered Mr. Beverley's office as Ash entered—without knocking, without invitation. He was panting, for he had taken the whole flight two steps at a time, and terror of the thing he was to do had almost bereft him of speech. Mr. Beverley stared at him coldly from over the ramparts of the mahogany desk.
“I wasn't aware that I'd sent for you, Ash,” he said.
“You didn't, sir. But I must speak to you—at once. It's about Middleton—”
“I'm sorry—I haven't a minute to spare. A lady has just asked to see me, and she's on her way up now. Another time, my good fellow.”
“Another time will be too late. Middleton is leaving to-night.”
“I'm afraid I don't care a jot when Middleton leaves.”
“You've got to care.”
IT was an amazing, horrible thing to have said. It was not merely a case of burning his ships—he had blown them up. Thirty years of patient labor—all gone for nothing. Yet his voice had sounded curiously loud and steady. He felt less ghostlike. For the first time in his drab life he had done something on his own. He was not obeying orders—he was disobeying them. He was flying in the face of Providence, and it seemed to him that the air was red and full of noise and the clash of warlike music. Mr. Beverley rose to his feet as though he had been lifted by an invisible force.
“You're beside yourself, Ash,” he said. “You've been drinking.”
It looked highly probable. The Ghost lurched forward and struck a ringing blow on the majestic table.
“I believe I am beside myself, sir,” he said loudly. “I see what I have been all these years, and I'm not going to be it any more. I wont let that man be cheated and tricked. It's—it's a damnable shame, sir!”
“Ash!”
“I don't care!” said the Ghost.
There was an interval in which the manager of Blankley's recovered his self-possession. He began to smile at last, and his smile, according to its degree of urbanity, presaged discomfort for some one else.
“I'm afraid after all these years we shall have to part company,” he said pleasantly.
“I don't care!” said the Ghost. “I shall tell the truth. I shall tell the whole world what I know.”
“And pray what is the truth? I asked advice—your advice, mind you—on a doubtful venture. Middleton himself will bear me witness that it was you who suggested twenty pounds as a fair price. If the invention turns out a success—so much the better. If there wasn't a chance of success, no firm would venture anything.” His smile broadened. “You wont get much sympathy when you go out into the world with your story, my good friend.”
“You—”
VERY fortunately, at that moment the door opened. It sometimes happens that ghosts, coming back to life, do unnatural things, and it must be regretfully admitted that this particular one had seized the first available weapon—an ink-pot. The lady who entered glanced from one to the other. The ink-pot and Beverley's unwavering smile were scarcely reconcilable, but the smile predominated.
“Thanks, Ash,” said Beverley pleasantly. “That's all for to-day. I wont detain you any longer.”
The Ghost replaced the ink-pot, but he did not go. He went over to the window, where he lingered sullenly. The lady came forward. Mr. Beverley bowed. Among other valuables, he possessed highly polished manners.
“I understand that you wish to speak to me, madam?” he said.
“Thanks—if you don't mind—just for a moment!”
Beverley threw a significant, commanding glance at Ash, who remained in every sense of the word unmoved. The lady also glanced at him. She had lifted her veil, and both men perceived that besides being well dressed she was also exceedingly pretty. Mr. Beverley's urbanity thickened.
“I suppose this gentleman is your confidential secretary?” she asked.
“Ye-es,” Beverley admitted unwillingly.
“You see,” she went on, “the matter is private and very important. That is why I did not give you my name through your clerk. I do not want my name to transpire at all. You understand?”
“Perfectly. You may rest assured that both Mr. Ash and myself are discretion itself. You may proceed with the utmost confidence.”
She laughed gayly.
“Oh, I haven't come to confess a crime. I've come on business. Mr. Beverley, you have a man engaged on your premises by name of Middleton?”
“I had, madam, but he is dismissed.”
“I see. Incompetent, I suppose?”
“I think that would be the kindest way of putting it,” said Beverley. The lady nodded. There was a twinkle in her bright eyes.
“I quite understand. You see—I take a personal interest in him. He used to be—my private secretary, and I had to get rid of him—for incompetency. In fact he was so incompetent that I consider it my duty to look after him. I promised.”
“Oh!” said Beverley somewhat nonplused. Then he made a little bow which but for the massiveness of his build would have been courtly. “It is incredible that you should be in any way guardian of this young man,” he added.
SHE bent her head, and Beverley was gratified to see that she blushed.
“Oh, I'm much, much older than you think,” she said rather indistinctly.
“Impossible—I mean—” he floundered. “I mean you couldn't be younger—I mean—”
She burst into a little peal of merriment.
“Thanks. We'll leave it at that, Mr. Beverley. I've come on business, not for compliments. Now, I understand that Middleton has patented an invention. I want you to tell me frankly what it is worth.”
Beverley smiled. He had seen the Ghost turn round and the thin hands clench themselves.
“I myself have no opinion in the matter,” he said. “But Mr. Ash here, who is an expert, told me it was worth twenty pounds at the most—and that's what I offered him for it,” he added generously.
“Very nice of you. Now, what I want you to do is to pretend that the thing is worth—say forty thousand pounds.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said forty thousand pounds. Also please inform this Mr. Middleton that owing to the value of his invention and the fact of his undoubted ability the Company has decided to offer him the position of managing director at the salary of five thousand pounds a year.”
“My dear madam—”
“Or perhaps ten thousand would be better.”
“Are you mad?” Mr. Beverley burst out. He had sprung from his seat, as though released by a spring and made a dive for the office bell. There was real alarm on his now flaccid countenance, and even the Ghost had edged nearer the door. The lady only smiled.
“I'm not in the least mad, thank you,” she said. “I am merely stating my wishes.”
“Permit me, then, to inform you that your wishes are ludicrously impossible.”
“Oh, no, they're not. And if you don't see your way to making them possible, I'm afraid you will have to offer your valuable services to another firm, Mr. Beverley.”
HE folded his arms and scowled down at her. The courtliness of his manner had miraculously evaporated.
“One would suppose, my dear madam, that you were Blankley & Co. itself,” he jeered.
“I am,” said the lady.
There was a moment's breathing-space.
“I don't quite follow—” said Mr. Beverley.
“It's really very simple. As you know, Blankley was wabbling on the brink of—what you call it—liquidation. Well, I sent my broker round, and at the present moment I hold three fourths of the Company's shares. To-morrow I hope to control the rest. The directors have resigned. I intend to float a new company with Mr. Middleton as managing director. That's all.”
Beverley exploded.
“All! The fools—the utter fools! If they had told me—warned me! Why, in six months I could have made the Company the richest in England—I could have made them all millionaires. I tell you—that invention's worth thousands—”
“Is it?” said the lady sweetly. “Did you or Mr. Ash say so?”
“I said so,” said the Ghost. He came forward, trembling but desperately determined. “He knew it was a good thing,” he went on, “and I agreed. I was driven. I couldn't help myself. I'm a poor man—and—and there was the wife—and—”
“I understand.” She looked at him with softened eyes and then at Beverley. There was a humorous little line about her mouth which softened its severity. “I'm afraid, Mr. Beverley, you're rather a—a—”
“Scoundrel?” he suggested. “I suppose that's true enough. Id better go.” He tossed his papers together. “It serves me right,” he added bitterly.
“WAIT a moment.” She extended a white hand to detain him. “There's just one thing—you bought that patent for the firm—not for yourself?”
“Well?”
“I think that counts a little in your favor, doesn't it?”
He was silent. The bullying pomposity had been beaten out of him. He looked at her anxiously—almost timidly.
“I've worked for the firm for thirty years,” he said. “We were identical—that's all.”
“Do you think then, Mr. Beverley, in the interests of the firm, that you could be—not a scoundrel?”
“I don't understand—”
“It's just this. If you do what I want, if you keep a solemn promise never to reveal to any human being, including Mr. Middleton, what has happened in this interview—you can stay.”
“Stay?”
“I mean it. Will you give me your word, gentlemen?”
Her hand was held out. Beverley looked at it. Like the Ghost, he was nearer true manhood at that moment than he had been for many years.
“Do you think my word's worth much?” he asked bitterly.
“I trust you. Mr. Ash—you too? You're married, you said? Wont you help make Mrs. Middleton happy?”
“Yes, if I could—I'd do anything!”
“Then wont you help me? You see—my name's Middleton.” She smiled upon them both. “I'm Peter Middleton's wife,” she said.
“WE'RE doing finely, aren't we, Ash?”
“Finely, sir.”
“Here's a letter from Beverley. Fresh orders from France. He wants to start a factory out there. What do you think, Ash?”
“We can afford to run a risk or two, sir.”
“That's what I think.” Peter Middleton leaned back in his chair and gazed contentedly round the handsome office. “It seems almost too good to be true,” he added solemnly.
“What, sir?”
“Why, everything. Just think, if you hadn't discovered at the last moment that my invention was worth something, and if Beverley hadn't been so splendid about it, I should be sheep-farming by now—and a lot of good I should have been too.”
“Indeed you saved the firm, sir.”
“Did I really, Ash?”
“You can see that for yourself, sir.”
Peter Middleton crimsoned with boyish satisfaction.
“It really is too splendid, Ash.”
“Yes sir, Mrs. Middleton will be glad, sir.”
Middleton glanced quickly at the elder man's grave face bent over the morning's mail.
“Mrs. Middleton doesn't know,” he said.
“Sir?” The bundle of letters fell scattered over the table. “Sir, you don't mean you've left her to starve whilst you—”
“No, no!” Middleton rose and came over to his secretary's side. He laid a hand on the sloping shoulders, shaken at that moment by a fierce indignation. “Don't think so badly of me, Ash,” he said earnestly. “Mrs. Middleton isn't starving. I never said she was. You jumped to conclusions. My wife's rich, terribly rich. She had so much money that she almost drowned me in it—and our happiness. It came between us. I'm afraid it always will.”
Ash drew himself up. Nobody had called him the Ghost for two months and what with five pounds a week and a house in Surbiton with a real garden, not to mention a social circle, he had become positively strong-minded.
“Don't you believe it, sir. Money never hurts anyone who works for it. And you're rich yourself now.”
“Not rich enough,” was the stubborn answer.
“I suppose you're going to wait till her heart's broken?” said the private secretary quite violently.
“Ash—what on earth—”
AT that moment the office door flew open. No apologetic office-boy made his appearance. Instead, a strange-looking individual arrayed in a top-hat of a socially extinct type and a frock-coat and trousers of the same generation burst in, and stood on the threshold glaring fiercely around him. His sandy-colored beard and violent blue eyes behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, not to mention the unrolled umbrella clasped firmly in both hands, added to the very marked pugnacity of his appearance.
“My dear old Gregory!” said Peter delightedly.
The visitor drew back. He made a circular movement with the umbrella which rendered any further overtures of friendship not only undesirable but dangerous.
“Stand back, sir! Don't touch me!”
“But my dear fellow—”
“Don't 'dear fellow' me! Scoundrel!” Middleton stared helplessly, and the little doctor made another and more threatening gesture. “I wouldn't have believed it possible,” he went on in a voice choked with passion. “You, my best friend, the man whom I believed in—to do a thing like this—no, it's horrible—abominable—”
“Look here,” Peter interrupted firmly, “if you're mad, Gregory, say so, and I'll do my best for you. Otherwise I think you owe me an explanation. What have I done—”
“Done, sir? Tell me one thing—where's your wife, sir?”
“My wife?”
“Yes sir, your wife. Here you are in the finest offices in London with a suite of rooms in a first-class hotel,—coining money, sir,—and what is your wife doing?”
“I don't know.”
“You don't know? Well, I do. Working her fingers to the bone to keep herself and your son alive, sir—in a fourth-floor attic, sir, whilst you—”
The defense of the umbrella proved unavailing. Middleton had the raging doctor by the shoulders and was shaking him backward and forward like a rat.
“Gregory, if you value your life, tell me what you mean. My wife—my son—in an attic—”
“Didn't you know—lost all her money—father wont give a penny, because not living with husband—son two months old—name John Peter—Middleton—let go of me!”
Peter Middleton let go, and the Doctor shot across the room into Ash's arms. Before he had recovered his breath, Peter was already struggling into his overcoat.
“Address!” he thundered.
“She's at 5, Bird Lane, fourth story, back room!”
Peter Middleton was gone.
Dr. Gregory collapsed into the nearest chair. He was hugging himself. though whether with pain or laughter the bewildered Ash could not tell.
DRURY LANE could not have done it better. The garret was as miserable as any ever allotted to a wronged and deserted wife by popular melodrama. The table was bare, the cupboards empty, the windows patched. The cradle was the one object that suggested better days. If there was a certain symmetry in Mrs. Middleton's personal disorder, only a close observer would have noticed it. At ten o'clock Mrs. Middleton was humming cheerfully to herself. At a quarter past a motor tooted impatiently in the street, and a minute later heavy, racing footsteps sounded on the rickety steps. Whereupon Mrs. Middleton took refuge by the cradle, where she sat with her head bowed on her hands in an attitude of most complete dejection.
The door opened violently.
“Come in!” said Mrs. Middleton unnecessarily and without looking up.
“Susan!”
She sprang to her feet.
“Peter!”
“I've come back. My poor beloved girl!”
They were in each others' arms. For several minutes there was nothing sufficiently coherent in their remarks to merit report, and only the wailing of a disturbed and angry infant brought them back to earth.
“Poor little beggar!” Peter murmured tenderly. “My dear ones, to think how you both must have suffered and I never knew!”
“We've both been awfully miserable—but it's worth while just to have you back.”
“Sure? And all that money gone, my dreadfully rich wife?”
“Every cent—in a horrid motor company. And I'm not rich any more. Everything's yours now, Peter. Even Papa's allowance stopped. He wouldn't give it me because we quarreled. He said it was my fault.”
“How dared he!”
“Well, it was. I was horrid. I expect he will give it me now, though. You wont mind?”
“Susan, you shall have everything!”
“Thank you,”—very meekly. “Peter, you haven't come back because you're sorry for us?”
He kissed her joyously.
“I've been the most miserable man on earth till this moment. I can't live without you any more. Is that being sorry for you?”
“You wont mind taking care of us both?”
“You know I sha'n't. I've been proud to work for you—I shall go on being proud. Susan—I could almost find it in my heart to be glad you lost all that money!”
Susan Middleton nodded. She and John Peter exchanged glances. John Peter's expression betrayed profound indignation, but since it was of necessity quite speechless, it really did not matter.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1959, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 64 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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