by Leroy Scott
CHAPTER VII
HOPE AND DEJECTION
A week or two later Rogers cut out all qualifying words and said fromhis heart, "I'm glad you know!" He and David quickly became comrades;and many an hour they sat in the room behind the office talking of life,of philosophy, of books. David now learned that Rogers had done a largepart of his really wide reading while in prison; and he now understoodRogers's frequent mispronunciation--Rogers had acquired his less commonwords entirely from reading, and never having heard them spoken, andlacking such fundamentals of education as rules of pronunciation, he hadfor fifteen years been pronouncing his new words as seemed to himproper.
David was surprised to find that Rogers, for all his occasional bitterflashes, was an optimist. He often marvelled how Rogers had retainedthis hopefulness for the world's future; he could explain it only by agreat natural soundness in the man. Rogers believed the world wasmarching forward, and he often said, his eyes illumined with belief:"The time is coming, Aldrich--I shall not see it, and you may not, butit's coming--when there will be no human waste, when the world will havelearned the economy of men!"
Frequently they discussed society's treatment of the criminal, andDavid learned that Rogers burned with an indignation as great as hisown. If ever Rogers's obsessing fear should be fulfilled, if he shouldbe found out, then his one desire, a desire always with him, was tospeak out his bitter accusation in the world's face.
One warm, exuberant Sunday toward the end of February, they walkednorthward through Riverside Park, the broad, glinting Hudson at theirleft. When they reached the height crowned by Grant's tomb, Rogers, whohad been silent for several minutes, now and then slipping meditativeglances at David, laid a hand on David's arm and brought him to a pause.
"Look across yonder," he whispered, pointing to the Palisades thatlifted their mighty shoulders from the Hudson's farther edge.
"Wonderful, aren't they," said David, letting his eyes travel northwardalong the giant wall till it dimmed away.
"Yes--but I didn't mean the view."
Rogers drew nearer, and went on in a whisper, while the crowd of Sundaypromenaders sauntered by their backs:
"I told you I saw many big business opportunities, and that I had to letthem all pass. Over there is one I did not let pass. Several years ago Isaw that some of the people who were being crowded off Manhattan islandwould in the future live over there. The land was cheap then; I saw itwould some day be immensely valuable. After a great deal ofmanoeuvring, in which Mr. Hoffman helped me, I secured an option forfour years on five pieces of ground that lie together. A few months agoI renewed the option for three more years; each time I paid the ownersa thousand dollars for the option. Under its terms, I guarantee them abig price, and they are bound to sell the land only through me. So yousee I am, in effect, the head of a small land syndicate. Over there ismy big venture--my big hope."
"And has the development you expected come?"
"It is coming. I have learned that a big company is buying all the landover there it can get hold of. They're going to establish a new suburb.They're buying secretly and through several agents; they want to keepthe different holders from guessing what's up, so they can get the landat their own price. Well, for my land they'll have to pay me _my_price!"
That evening they called on Kate Morgan. Once, shortly after that firstdinner together in the Pan-American Cafe, when David had dropped in tosee her he had found Rogers there, and he had discovered on Rogers'scontrolled face a look he thought might betoken more than a commonplaceinterest. Since then Rogers had often called, and that which David hadat first seen as a possibility he now saw developing toward a fact.
Old Jimmie was sleeping off the effects of a "loan" in a back room, sothey had Kate and the little parlour to themselves. Kate was in thedepth of the blues. David asked her what was the matter.
"Soap!" she cried fiercely. "My life's nothing but soap. It's 'Thatkind's nine cents for a box of three cakes, ma'am. Three boxes?Twenty-seven cents, please.' Or it's 'this variety is thirteen cents abox--regular value twenty-five.' That's all. It's just that, and onlythat, nine hours a day, six days a week, fifty-two weeks ayear--soap!--soap!--soap! Oh, I'm going soap-mad! I can't stand it! Iwon't stand it!"
She gazed rebelliously at the two men.
"You must try something new," said David.
"And please, sir, what'll that be?" she demanded, sarcastically.
"Something that will use your energy and intelligence. How would youlike to be a stenographer? A few months in a business school would fityou for a position. You would develop and advance rapidly, and soon havea responsible place."
"I'd like that," she said, decidedly. "I've thought of it--I know Icould do the work. But how about the months while I study? I did have alittle money on hand, but I couldn't live and keep my father on thatsoap-counter's five dollars, so I've had to use some of it every week.It's all gone. I must live--and I'm broke. No, I've got to stick to thesoap!"
"Can't you and your father take two cheap rooms, sell most of yourfurniture, and live on the proceeds while you study?" David persisted.
"Everything here was bought on instalment. It's about half paid for. Ifsold, it'd bring about enough to pay off the balance. I might as welljust give it back to the dealer."
Rogers, who thus far had been silent, now said quietly: "You leave thesettling with the instalment dealer to me. I'll guarantee to get enoughout of him to keep you going till you're through school."
She laughed. "You'll be the first that ever got anything out of aninstalment dealer!"
"I'll get it," he assured her. "If I don't get quite enough from him,I'll borrow the rest for you."
She looked at him sharply. "That means you'd loan it all. You're mightykind. But I could never pay it back--to take it would be the same asstealing. I've never stolen from friends, and I'm not going to beginnow."
But in the end Rogers prevailed; and when they left it had been settledthat Kate was immediately to enter a business school.
Two days before--after Tom had gratefully refused a second better-payingjob--David had had a conference with the Mayor. "I been doin' my besttalkin' to get him to go," the Mayor said despairingly, "but he says Iwas good to him when he needed a job and now he's never goin' to leaveme. Say, if I don't get rid o' him pretty soon, I got to start my owndish factory. And here's an interestin' point for you, friend: sincehe's had them better offers he's been hintin' at a raise."
When David entered his room, after telling Rogers good night, he foundTom, who had avoided him the night before and all the day, sitting fardown in the rocking-chair, wrapped in dejection. He understood the boy'sgloom, for he had suggested a plan to the Mayor.
Tom dropped his eyes when David came in, and answered David's "Hellothere," with only a mumble. But at length he looked guiltily up.
"Is dat job you was tellin' me about took yet?" he asked.
David tried to wear an innocent face. "Why? What's the matter?"
"De boss told me yesterday he was losin' money, dat he'd have to cutdown his force, an' dat he'd have to let me go."
"Yes?"
"I told him he'd been a friend to me when I was hard up, an' I was goin'to stick by him now't he was up agin it. I said I was goin' to work forhim for nuttin'."
"Oh!" said David.
"But he wouldn't let me. So I'm fired. How about dat odder job?"
"I'm afraid it's taken, Tom."
David pulled a chair before the boy and for ten minutes spoke his bestpersuasion in favour of entering school.
"Yes, de Mayor handed me out de same line o' talk. He told me what a lotyou'd done for me. He was right, too. An' he told me how much you wantedme to go to school."
He looked steadily, silently, at David. "D'you really want me to go asmuch as all dat, pard?"
"There's nothing I'd rather have you do."
"An' you won't miss de t'ree a week I been fetchin' in?"
"I don't think we'll miss it much."
There was
an inward struggle. "Dere's nuttin' I'd not sooner do, pard,"he said, huskily. "But since you want me to--all right."
The next morning he started to school. At the end of the day he informedDavid that he was in a class "wid kids knee-high to a milk-bottle,"that his teacher was "one o' dem t'inks-she-is beauts dat steps alongdainty so she won't break de eart'," and "de whole biz gives me debellyache." He was miserable for weeks--and so was his teacher--and sowere his class-mates. But he gradually became adjusted to school life,and when some of the rudiments were fixed in his head, he began to makerapid progress. He had become great friends with Helen Chambers, whom heoften saw at the Mission, and his desire to please her was anotherincentive to succeed in school.
One day David had a note from Dr. Franklin inviting him to call at theMission, and a day or two later Helen explained the invitation. Dr.Franklin had learned that David was living in the neighbourhood; knowingthat Helen had once been friends with him, he had spoken of David toher; she had told of David's struggle and his purpose--and theinvitation was the consequence. Helen advised David to accept, and oneevening he called. The gray old man received him in such a spirit ofunobtrusive forgiveness, referred only vaguely and hastily to the theft,praised him so sincerely for his struggle, and spoke so hopefully of thefuture, that David could take none of it amiss. He had to like the man,and be glad that such a one was Morton's successor.
When he left he gazed long at the glowing memorial window, which was nowrestored. What resentment there continued in his heart was for themoment swept out. He was glad that Morton's memory was clear--glad itwas his dishonour that kept the memory so.
All this time David worked hard upon his story--becoming closer friendswith Rogers, frequently seeing Kate, who was studying with all herenergy, occasionally meeting Dr. Franklin, and now and then walking withHelen from the Mission to her car, or part of the way to her home. Mostof the time his belief in the story was strong, and he worked witheagerness and with a sense that what he wrote had life and soul. But atintervals depression threw him into its black pit, and all hisconfidence, his strength of will, were required to drag himself out.
Several times Helen Chambers rescued him. Once she took him to visit herUncle Henry, whom she had told of David's struggle. The old man's genialcourtesy, and genuine interest in the book, were an inspiration fordays. And once she forced him to come to her home and read to her a partof what he had written; and her eager praise lifted him again into thesunlight of enthusiasm.
So, working hard, the winter softened into spring, the spring warmedinto summer, the summer sharpened into early autumn--and the book wasdone. He immediately sent it, as he had promised, to Helen, who was thenat one of the family's country places. Three days afterward there came anote from her. It told how the story had gripped her, and how it hadgripped her Uncle Henry, who was visiting them--how big it was just as astory--how splendid it was in purpose; it told what a great promise thebook was for his future; and finally it told that she had sent themanuscript to her publisher friend.
But the flames of enthusiasm enkindled by this note sank and died away;and he was possessed by the soul-chilling reaction, the utter disbeliefin what one has done, that so often follows the completion of asustained imaginative task. His people were wooden, their talk wooden,their action wooden, and the wires that were their vital force werevisible to the dullest eye. Helen, he told himself, had judged his workwith the leniency of a friend for a friend. Hers was not a criticalestimate. He knew that the publisher's answer, when it came after thelapse of a month or two months, would be the formal return of hismanuscript. Success meant too much to him to be possible--his promotionto more pleasant work, a rise in the world's opinion, the partialrepayment of his debt, a higher place in Helen's regard, the beginningof his dreamed-of part in saving the human waste.
No, these things were not for him. He had failed too often with his penfor success to come at last.
