'Firebrand' Trevison by Charles Alden Seltzer (ebook reader library TXT) đ
- Author: Charles Alden Seltzer
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âThe impertinent brute! Rosalind, he dared to look directly at me, and I am sure he would have winked at me in another instant! A gentleman!â she said, coldly.
âDonât be severe, Aunty. Iâm sure he is a gentleman, for all his curiosity. Seeâthere he is, riding away without so much as looking back!â
Half an hour later the two women entered the dining-room just as a big, rather heavy-featured, but handsome man, came through the opposite door. He greeted both ladies effusively, and smilingly looked at his watch.
âYou over-slept this morning, ladiesâdonât you think? Itâs after ten. Iâve been rummaging around town, getting acquainted. Itâs rather an unfinished place, after the East. But in timeââ He made a gesture, perhaps a silent prophecy that one day Manti would out-strip New York, and bowed the ladies to seats at table, talking while the colored waiter moved obsequiously about them.
âI thought at first that your father was over-enthusiastic about Manti, Miss Benham,â he continued. âBut the more I see of it the firmer becomes my conviction that your father was right. There are tremendous possibilities for growth. Even now it is a rather fertile country. We shall make it hum, once the railroad and the dam are completed. It is a logical site for a townâthere is no other within a hundred miles in any direction.â
âAnd you are to anticipate the townâs growthâisnât that it, Mr. Corrigan?â
âYou put it very comprehensively, Miss Benham; but perhaps it would be better to say that I am the advance agent of prosperityâthat sounds rather less mercenary. We must not allow the impression to get abroad that mere money is to be the motive power behind our efforts.â
âBut money-making is the real motive, after all?â said Miss Benham, dryly.
âI submit there are several driving forces in life, and that money-making is not the least compelling of them.â
âThe other forces?â It seemed to Corrigan that Miss Benhamâs face was very serious. But Agatha, who knew Rosalind better than Corrigan knew her, was aware that the girl was merely demurely sarcastic.
âLove and hatred are next,â he said, slowly.
âYou would place money-making before love?â Rosalind bantered.
âMoney adds the proper flavor to love,â laughed Corrigan. The laugh was laden with subtle significance and he looked straight at the girl, a deep fire slumbering in his eyes. âYes,â he said slowly, âmoney-making is a great passion. I have it. But I can hate, and love. And when I do either, it will be strongly. And thenââ
Agatha cleared her throat impatiently. Corrigan colored slightly, and Miss Benham smothered something, artfully directing the conversation into less personal channels:
âYou are going to build manufactories, organize banks, build municipal power-houses, speculate in real estate, and such things, I suppose?â
âAnd build a dam. We already have a bank here, Miss Benham.â
âWill father be interested in those things?â
âSilently. You understand, that being president of the railroad, your father must keep in the background. The actual promoting of these enterprises will be done by me.â
Miss Benham looked dreamily out of the window. Then she turned to Corrigan and gazed at him meditatively, though the expression in her eyes was so obviously impersonal that it chilled any amorous emotion that Corrigan might have felt.
âI suppose you are right,â she said. âIt must be thrilling to feel a conscious power over the destiny of a community, to direct its progress, to manage it, andâerâfiguratively to grab industries by theirââ She looked slyly at Agatha ââlower extremities and shake the dollars out of them. Yes,â she added, with a wistful glance through the window; âthat must be more exciting than being merely in love.â
Agatha again followed Rosalindâs gaze and saw the black horse standing in front of a store. She frowned, and observed stiffly:
âIt seems to me that the people in these small placesâsuch as Mantiâare not capable of managing the large enterprises that Mr. Corrigan speaks of.â She looked at Rosalind, and the girl knew that she was deprecating the rider of the black horse. Rosalind smiled sweetly.
âOh, I am sure there must be some intelligent persons among them!â
âAs a rule,â stated Corrigan, dogmatically, âthe first citizens of any town are an uncouth and worthless set.â
âThe Four Hundred would take exception to that!â laughed Rosalind.
Corrigan laughed with her. âYou know what I mean, of course. Take Manti, for instance. Or any new western town. The lowest elements of society are represented; most of the people are very ignorant and criminal.â
The girl looked sharply at Corrigan, though he was not aware of the glance. Was there a secret understanding between Corrigan and Agatha? Had Corrigan also some knowledge of the riderâs pilgrimages past the car window? Both had maligned the rider. But the girl had seen intelligence on the face of the rider, and something in the set of his head had told her that he was not a criminal. And despite his picturesque rigging, and the atmosphere of the great waste places that seemed to envelop him, he had made a deeper impression on her than had Corrigan, darkly handsome, well-groomed, a polished product of polite convention and breeding, whom her father wanted her to marry.
âWell,â she said, looking at the black horse; âI intend to observe Mantiâs citizens more closely before attempting to express an opinion.â
Half an hour later, in response to Corriganâs invitation, Rosalind was walking down Mantiâs one street, Corrigan beside her. Corrigan had donned khaki clothing, a broad, felt hat, boots, neckerchief. But in spite of the change of garments there was a poise, an atmosphere about him, that hinted strongly of the graces of civilization. Rosalind felt a flash of pride in him. He was big, masterful, fascinating.
Manti seemed to be fraudulent, farcical, upon closer inspection. For one thing, its crudeness was more glaring, and its unpainted board fronts looked flimsy, transient. Compared to the substantial buildings of the East, Mantiâs structures were hovels. Here was the primitive town in the first flush of its creation. Miss Benham did not laugh, for a mental picture rose before herâa bit of wild New England coast, a lowering sky, a group of Old-world pilgrims shivering around a blazing fire in the open, a ship in the offing. That also was a band of first citizens; that picture and the one made by Manti typified the spirit of America.
There were perhaps twenty buildings. Corrigan took her into several of them. But, she noted, he did not take her into the store in front of which was the black horse. She was introduced to several of the proprietors. Twice she overheard parts of the conversation carried on between Corrigan and the proprietors. In each case the conversation was the same:
âDo you own this property?â
âThe building.â
âWho owns the land?â
âA company in New York.â
Corrigan introduced himself as the manager of the company, and spoke of erecting an office. The two men spoke about their âleases.â The latter seemed to have been limited to two months.
âSee me before your lease expires,â she heard Corrigan tell the men.
âDoes the railroad own the town site?â asked Rosalind as they emerged from the last store.
âYes. And leases are going to be more valuable presently.â
âYou donât mean that you are going to extort money from themâafter they have gone to the expense of erecting buildings?â
His smile was pleasant. âThey will be treated with the utmost consideration, Miss Benham.â
He ushered her into the bank. Like the other buildings, the bank was of frame construction. Its only resemblance to a bank was in the huge safe that stood in the rear of the room, and a heavy wire netting behind which ran a counter. Some chairs and a desk were behind the counter, and at the desk sat a man of probably forty, who got up at the entrance of his visitors and approached them, grinning and holding out a hand to Corrigan.
âSo youâre here at last, Jeff,â he said. âI saw the car on the switch this morning. The show will open pretty soon now, eh?â He looked inquiringly at Rosalind, and Corrigan presented her. She heard the manâs name, âMr. Crofton Braman,â softly spoken by her escort, and she acknowledged the introduction formally and walked to the door, where she stood looking out into the street.
Braman repelled herâshe did not know why. A certain crafty gleam of his eyes, perhaps, strangely blended with a bold intentness as he had looked at her; a too effusive manner; a smoothly ingratiating smileâthese evidences of character somehow made her link him with schemes and plots.
She did not reflect long over Braman. Across the street she saw the rider of the black horse standing beside the animal at a hitching rail in front of the store that Corrigan had passed without entering. Viewed from this distance, the riderâs face was more distinct, and she saw that he was good-lookingâquite as good-looking as Corrigan, though of a different type. Standing, he did not seem to be so tall as Corrigan, nor was he quite so bulky. But he was lithe and powerful, and in his movements, as he unhitched the black horse, threw the reins over its head and patted its neck, was an ease and grace that made Rosalindâs eyes sparkle with admiration.
The rider seemed to be in no hurry to mount his horse. The girl was certain that twice as he patted the animalâs neck he stole glances at her, and a stain appeared in her cheeks, for she remembered the car window.
And then she heard a voice greet the rider. A man came out of the door of one of the saloons, glanced at the rider and raised his voice, joyously:
âWell, if it ainât olâ âBrandâ! Where in hell you been keepinâ yourself? I ainât seen you for a week!â
Friendship was speaking here, and the girlâs heart leaped in sympathy. She watched with a smile as the other man reached the riderâs side and wrung his hand warmly. Such effusiveness would have been thought hypocritical in the East; humanness was always frowned upon. But what pleased the girl most was this evidence that the rider was well liked. Additional evidence on this point collected quickly. It came from several doors, in the shapes of other men who had heard the first manâs shout, and presently the rider was surrounded by many friends.
The girl was deeply interested. She forgot Braman, Corriganâforgot that she was standing in the doorway of the bank. She was seeing humanity stripped of conventionalities; these people were not governed by the intimidating regard for public opinion that so effectively stifled warm impulses among the persons she knew.
She heard another man call to him, and she found herself saying: ââBrandâ! What an odd name!â But it seemed to fit him; he was of a type that one sees rarelyâclean, big, athletic, virile, magnetic. His personality dominated the group; upon him interest centered heavily. Nor did his popularity appear to destroy his poise or make him self-conscious. The girl watched closely for signs of that. Had he shown the slightest trace of self-worship she would have lost interest in him. He appeared to be a trifle embarrassed, and that made him doubly attractive to her. He bantered gayly with the men, and several times his replies to some quip convulsed the others.
And then while she dreamily watched him, she heard several voices insist that he âshow Nigger off.â He demurred, and when they again insisted, he spoke lowly to them, and she felt their concentrated gaze upon her. She knew that he had declined to âshow Nigger offâ because of her presence. âNigger,â she guessed, was his horse. She secretly hoped he would overcome his prejudice, for she loved the big black, and was
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