CHAPTER II. A CHEERFUL PRODIGAL.
That which was the supreme tragedy to the broken girl in the cell merelyafforded rather agreeable entertainment to her former fellows of thedepartment store. Mary Turner throughout her term of service there hadbeen without real intimates, so that now none was ready to mourn overher fate. Even the two room-mates had felt some slight offense, sincethey sensed the superiority of her, though vaguely. Now, they founda smug satisfaction in the fact of her disaster as emphasizing verypleasurably their own continuance in respectability.
As many a philosopher has observed, we secretly enjoy the misfortunes ofothers, particularly of our friends, since they are closest to us. Mostpersons hasten to deny this truth in its application to themselves. Theydo so either because from lack of clear understanding they are not quitehonest with themselves, from lack of clear introspection, or because, asmay be more easily believed, they are not quite honest in the assertion.As a matter of fact, we do find a singular satisfaction in the troublesof others. Contemplation of such suffering renders more striking thecontrasted well-being of our own lot. We need the pains of othersto serve as background for our joys--just as sin is essential as thebackground for any appreciation of virtue, even any knowledge of itsexistence.... So now, on the day of Mary Turner's trial, there was asubtle gaiety of gossipings to and fro through the store. The girl'splight was like a shuttlecock driven hither and yon by the battledoresof many tongues. It was the first time in many years that one of theemployees had been thus accused of theft. Shoplifters were so common asto be a stale topic. There was a refreshing novelty in this case,where one of themselves was the culprit. Her fellow workers chatteddesultorily of her as they had opportunity, and complacently thankedtheir gods that they were not as she--with reason. Perhaps, a very fewwere kindly hearted enough to feel a touch of sympathy for this ruin ofa life.
Of such was Smithson, a member of the executive staff, who did nothesitate to speak his mind, though none too forcibly. As for that,Smithson, while the possessor of a dignity nourished by years offloor-walking, was not given to the holding of vigorous opinions. Yet,his comment, meager as it was, stood wholly in Mary's favor. And hespoke with a certain authority, since he had given official attention tothe girl.
Smithson stopped Sarah Edwards, Mr. Gilder's private secretary, as shewas passing through one of the departments that morning, to ask her ifthe owner had yet reached his office.
"Been and gone," was the secretary's answer, with the tersenesscharacteristic of her.
"Gone!" Smithson repeated, evidently somewhat disturbed by theinformation. "I particularly wanted to see him."
"He'll be back, all right," Sarah vouchsafed, amiably. "He wentdown-town, to the Court of General Sessions. The judge sent for himabout the Mary Turner case."
"Oh, yes, I remember now," Smithson exclaimed. Then he added, with atrace of genuine feeling, "I hope the poor girl gets off. She was a nicegirl--quite the lady, you know, Miss Edwards."
"No, I don't know," Sarah rejoined, a bit tartly. Truth to tell, thesecretary was haunted by a grim suspicion that she herself was not quitethe lady of her dreams, and never would be able to acquire the graces ofthe Vere De Vere. For Sarah, while a most efficient secretary, was notin her person of that slender elegance which always characterized herfavorite heroines in the novels she affected. On the contrary, she wasof a sort to have gratified Byron, who declared that a woman in hermaturity should be plump. Now, she recalled with a twinge of envy thatthe accused girl had been of an aristocratic slimness of form. "Oh, didyou know her?" she questioned, without any real interest.
Smithson answered with that bland stateliness of manner which was thefruit of floor-walking politeness.
"Well, I couldn't exactly say I knew her, and yet I might say, after amanner of speaking, that I did--to a certain extent. You see, they puther in my department when she first came here to work. She was a goodsaleswoman, as saleswomen go. For the matter of that," he added with asudden access of energy, "she was the last girl in the world I'd takefor a thief." He displayed some evidences of embarrassment over thehonest feeling into which he had been betrayed, and made haste torecover his usual business manner, as he continued formally. "Will youplease let me know when Mr. Gilder arrives? There are one or two littlematters I wish to discuss with him."
"All right!" Sarah agreed briskly, and she hurried on toward the privateoffice.
The secretary was barely seated at her desk when the violent opening ofthe door startled her, and, as she looked up, a cheery voice cried out:
"Hello, Dad!"
At the same moment, a young man entered, with an air of care-freeassurance, his face radiant. But, as his glance went to the emptyarm-chair at the desk, he halted abruptly, and his expression changed toone of disappointment.
"Not here!" he grumbled. Then, once again the smile was on his lipsas his eyes fell on the secretary, who had now risen to her feet in aflutter of excitement.
"Why, Mr. Dick!" Sarah gasped.
"Hello, Sadie!" came the genial salutation. The young man advanced andshook hands with her warmly. "I'm home again. Where's Dad?"
Even as he asked the question, the quick sobering of his face borewitness to his disappointment over not finding his father in the office.For such was the relationship of the owner of the department store tothis new arrival on the scene. And in the patent chagrin under which theson now labored was to be found a certain indication of character notto be disregarded. Unlike many a child, he really loved his father. Thedeath of the mother years before had left him without other opportunityfor affection in the home, since he had neither brother nor sister. Heloved his father with a depth of feeling that made between the two areal camaraderie, despite great differences in temperament. In thatsimple and sincere regard which he bore for his father, the boy revealeda heart ready for love, willing to give of itself its best for the onebeloved. Beyond that, as yet, there was little to be said of him withexactness. He was a spoiled child of fortune, if you wish to have itso. Certainly, he was only a drone in the world's hive. Thus far, hehad enjoyed the good things of life, without ever doing aught to deservethem by contributing in return--save by his smiles and his genial air ofhappiness.
In the twenty-three years of his life, every gift that money couldlavish had been his. If the sum total of benefit was small, at leastthere remained the consoling fact that the harm was even less. Luxuryhad not sapped the strength of him. He had not grown vicious, as have somany of his fellows among the sons of the rich. Some instinct held himaloof from the grosser vices. His were the trifling faults that hadtheir origin chiefly in the joy of life, which manifest occasionally inriotous extravagancies, of a sort actually to harm none, however absurdand useless they may be.
So much one might see by a glance into the face. He was well groomed,of course; healthy, all a-tingle with vitality. And in the clear eyes,which avoided no man's gaze, nor sought any woman's unseemly, thereshowed a soul untainted, not yet developed, not yet debased. Through allhis days, Dick Gilder had walked gladly, in the content that springs tothe call of one possessed of a capacity for enjoyment; possessed, too,of every means for the gratification of desire. As yet, the man of himwas unrevealed in its integrity. No test had been put upon him. Thefires of suffering had not tried the dross of him. What real worth mightlie under this sunny surface the future must determine. There showed nowonly this one significant fact: that, in the first moment of his returnfrom journeyings abroad, he sought his father with all eagerness, andwas sorely grieved because the meeting must still be delayed. It was alittle thing, perhaps. Yet, it was capable of meaning much concerningthe nature of the lad. It revealed surely a tender heart, one responsiveto a pure love. And to one of his class, there are many forces everpresent to atrophy such simple, wholesome power of loving. The abilityto love cleanly and absolutely is the supreme virtue.
Sarah explained that Mr. Gilder had been called to the Court of GeneralSessions by the judge.
Dick interrupted her with a gus
t of laughter.
"What's Dad been doing now?" he demanded, his eyes twinkling. Then,a reminiscent grin shaped itself on his lips. "Remember the time thatfresh cop arrested him for speeding? Wasn't he wild? I thought he wouldhave the whole police force discharged." He smiled again. "The troubleis," he declared sedately, "that sort of thing requires practice. Now,when I'm arrested for speeding, I'm not in the least flustered--oh, nota little bit! But poor Dad! That one experience of his almost soured hiswhole life. It was near the death of him--also, of the city's finest."
By this time, the secretary had regained her usual poise, which had beensomewhat disturbed by the irruption of the young man. Her round faceshone delightedly as she regarded him. There was a maternal note ofrebuke in her voice as she spoke:
"Why, we didn't expect you back for two or three months yet."
Once again, Dick laughed, with an infectious gaiety that brought a smileof response to the secretary's lips.
"Sadie," he explained confidentially, "don't you dare ever to let theold man know. He would be all swollen up. It's bad to let a parent swellup. But the truth is, Sadie, I got kind of homesick for Dad--yes, justthat!" He spoke the words with a sort of shamefaced wonder. It is noteasy for an Anglo-Saxon to confess the realities of affection invital intimacies. He repeated the phrase in a curiously appreciativehesitation, as one astounded by his own emotion. "Yes, homesick forDad!"
Then, to cover an excess of sincere feeling, he continued, with a burstof laughter:
"Besides, Sadie, I was broke."
The secretary sniffed.
"The cable would have handled that end of it, I guess," she said,succinctly.
There was no word of contradiction from Dick, who, from ampleexperience, knew that any demand for funds would have received answerfrom the father.
"But what is Dad doing in court?" he demanded.
Sarah explained the matter with her usual conciseness:
"One of the girls was arrested for stealing."
The nature of the son was shown then clearly in one of its best aspects.At once, he exhibited his instinct toward the quality of mercy, and,too, his trust in the father whom he loved, by his eager comment.
"And Dad went to court to get her out of the scrape. That's just likethe old man!"
Sarah, however, showed no hint of enthusiasm. Her mind was ever of theprosaic sort, little prone to flights. In that prosaic quality, was tobe found the explanation of her dependability as a private secretary.So, now, she merely made a terse statement.
"She was tried to-day, and convicted. The judge sent for Mr. Gilder tocome down this morning and have a talk with him about the sentence."
There was no lessening of the expression of certainty on the young man'sface. He loved his father, and he trusted where he loved.
"It will be all right," he declared, in a tone of entire conviction."Dad's heart is as big as a barrel. He'll get her off."
Then, of a sudden, Dick gave a violent start. He added a convincinggroan.
"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, dismally. There was shame in his voice. "Iforgot all about it!"
The secretary regarded him with an expression of amazement.
"All about what?" she questioned.
Dick assumed an air vastly more confidential than at any time hitherto.He leaned toward the secretary's desk, and spoke with a new seriousnessof manner:
"Sadie, have you any money? I'm broker My taxi' has been waiting outsideall this time."
"Why, yes," the secretary said, cheerfully. "If you will----"
Dick was discreet enough to turn his attention to a picture on thewall opposite while Sarah went through those acrobatic performancesobligatory on women who take no chances of losing money by carrying itin purses.
"There!" she called after a few panting seconds, and exhibited a flushedface.
Dick turned eagerly and seized the banknote offered him.
"Mighty much obliged, Sadie," he said, enthusiastically. "But I mustrun. Otherwise, this wouldn't be enough for the fare!" And, so saying,he darted out of the room.
Within the Law: From the Play of Bayard Veiller Page 2
