by Leroy Scott
CHAPTER I
HELEN CHAMBERS GETS A NEW VIEW OF HER FATHER
The morning light that sunk down the deep air-shaft and directed itsdimmed gaze through the window, saw Rogers lying dressed on the couchand David sitting with sunken head at the window, a sleepless night onboth their faces. There had been little talk during the crawling hours,save when the Mayor had dropped in near midnight and set walls andfurniture trembling with his deep chest-notes of profanity. Even Tom,awed by the overwhelming disaster, moved noiselessly about and spokeonly a few whispered monosyllables. The blow was too heavy to be talkedof--too heavy for them to think of what should next be done.
Once, however, David, whose personal loss was almost forgotten in hissympathy for Rogers, had spoken of the future. "There is no future,"Rogers had said. "In a few days the owners of my buildings will hearabout me. They will take the agency from me. I have a few hundreddollars. That will soon go. And then--?"
The dinginess in the light began to settle like the sediment of aclearing liquid, and the sense that the sun must be breakfast-highworked slowly to the seat of David's will. He rose, quietly set a fewthings in order, Rogers's eyes following him about, then put on his hatwith the purpose of going to the Pan-American for his breakfast and tobring Rogers's.
As he started for the door Rogers reached forth his hand. "I'm glad youfound out about me, Aldrich," he said. "I can never tell you how muchyou've meant to me during the last eight months, and how much you meanto me now."
David grasped the hand and looked down into the despairing eyes. "I'mglad," he said, simply.
After a moment Rogers's weak grip relaxed and he turned away his facewith a sigh. David went softly out.
While David was at breakfast--his appetite shrunk from it--the Mayor satdown at his table, which had the privacy of an empty corner. "By theway," the Mayor whispered, "d'you have any idea yet how Chambers foundout?"
"No more than yesterday. We told you of the call of that detective. Hemust have been from Chambers, and he must have made the discovery. Buthow, we don't know."
"Poor Rogers!" The Mayor shook his head sadly, thoughtfully. His facebegan slowly to redden and his eyes to flash. He thrust out a big fist."Friend, I don't believe in fightin'--but say, I'd give five years toflatten the face that belongs to Mr. Chambers!"
David had to smile at the idea of the Mayor and Mr. Chambers engaged infisticuffs. "It's sad, but men like Mr. Chambers are beyond the reach ofjustice."
The Mayor dropped his belligerent attitude. "Oh, I don't know. Mebbethey can't be reached with fists, or law--but there's other ways. AndI'd like to jab him any old way. I've been thinkin' about that daughtero' his. Wouldn't I like to tell her a few things about her dad!"
The Mayor swayed away in response to a summons from the kitchen, and afew minutes later David entered his room bearing in a basket Rogers'sprescribed milk and soft-boiled eggs. Rogers drank down the eggs, whichDavid had stirred to a yellow liquid, and after them the milk, and thenwith a gasp of relief sank back upon the couch. As David was clearing upafter the breakfast he heard some one--Kate he guessed--enter theoffice, and presently there was a rap on the door between the two rooms.David opened the door and found, as he had expected, Kate Morgan. Shewore her coat and hat, just as she had come from the street. On her facewas a strange, compressed look, and her eyes were red-lidded.
"Can I come in?" she asked with tremulous abruptness.
"Please do," said David.
She entered and moved to the foot of the couch where she could look downon Rogers. "I've come to say something--and to say good-bye," sheannounced.
"Say good-bye?" Rogers sat up. "Good-bye? Why? Oh, you have a newposition?"
"No. I've no right to be here. You won't want me when you know. So I'mgoing."
Her face tightened with the effort of holding down sobs. The two menlooked at her in wonderment, waiting.
"You know how broke up I was when you told me about yesterdayafternoon," she went on, "and how mad I was at Mr. Chambers. And then tofind out what I have!... Here's what I've come to tell you. Yesterdayafternoon and last night my father was drinking a great deal. I wonderedwhere he got the money. This morning I went through his clothes while hewas asleep; there were several dollars. I asked him about it. He lied tome, of course. But I got the truth out of him in the end.
"You remember that detective you told me about last night. When he lefthere yesterday about noon he happened to see my father sweeping off thesidewalk. He began to talk to my father, got my father to drinking, gavehim some money. And after a while my father--he'd learned it somehow--hetold the detective--he told him you were Red Thorpe."
The two men were silent a moment, looking at the strained face downwhich tears were now running.
"So that's how it happened!" Rogers breathed.
"Yes--my father told!" The tremor in her voice had grown to sharpsobs--of shame, agony, and wrath. "My father brought all this on you.And it's all because of me. If you both hadn't tried to be good to me,my father would not have been here and everything would have turned outright. It's all because of me!--all my fault!--don't you see? I knowyou'll both hate me now. I know you'll want me to go away. Well--I'mgoing. But I want to tell you how sorry I am--how sorry!... Good-bye."
David wanted to speak to her, but this was Rogers's affair rather thanhis.
She swept them both with her brimming eyes. "Good-bye," she said again,and turned to the door.
"Miss Morgan!" called Rogers.
She paused and looked at him.
"Don't go yet."
He rose and came to her with outstretched hand. "It wasn't your fault."
She stared dazedly at him. "You're ruined--you told me so last night,and I did it. Yes, I did it."
"No. You couldn't help it. You mustn't go at all."
She took his hand slowly, in astonishment. "Oughtn't I to go?" shequavered.
"You must stay and help bear it," he said.
She looked steadfastly into his eyes. "You're mighty good to me," shebreathed in a dry whisper. And then a sob broke from her, and turningabruptly she went into the office.
* * * * *
In the afternoon David walked over to St. Christopher's to meet HelenChambers. Besides his bitterness, and his suspense over seeing her,David felt as he entered the door of the Mission (what he had felt onhis three or four previous visits) a fear of meeting some wrathful,upbraiding body who would recognise him. But he met no one except agroup of children coming with books from the library, and unescorted hefollowed the familiar way to the reception room, where Helen had writtenshe would meet him. This, like the rest of the Mission's interior he hadseen, was practically unchanged; and in this maintenance of oldarrangements he read reverence for Morton. He wandered about the room,looking at the friendly, brown-framed prints that summoned back the far,ante-prison days. The past, flooding into him, and his sense of thenearness of Helen, crowded out for the time all his bitterness overRogers's destruction.
When Helen appeared at the door, he was for an instant powerless tomove, so thrilled was he with his love for her. She came across the roomwith a happy smile, her hand held out. He strode toward her, and as hecaught her hand his blood swept through him in a warm wave.
"I'm so glad to see you again!" she cried, and a little laugh told himhow sincere her joy was.
A sudden desire struggled to tell her, truly, how great was hisgladness, and its kind, at seeing her again; and fighting the desireback made him dizzy. "And I to see you!" he said.
"It's been--let's see--five months since I've seen you, and--"
"Five months and four days," the desire within David corrected.
"And four days," she accepted, with a laugh. "And there've been so manythings during that time I've wanted to talk with you about. But how areyou?"
She moved near a window. She was full of spirits this day. The out-doorlife from which she had just come, the wind, the sun, the water, wereblowing and shining and ripplin
g within her. David, in analysing hislove for her, had told himself he loved her because of her able mind,her nobility of soul, her feeling of responsibility toward life. Had heanalysed further he would have found that her lighter qualities wereequally responsible for his love--her sense of humour, the freshness ofher spirits, her joy in the pleasures of life. She had never shown himthis lighter side with more freedom than now--not even during the summerseven years before when for two weeks they had been comrades;--andDavid, yesterday forgotten, yielded to her mood.
He frankly looked her over. She wore a tailor-made suit of a rich brown,that had captured some of the warm glow of sun-lit autumn, and a littlebrown hat to match on which bloomed a single red rose. Her face had theclear fresh brown of six months' sun, and the sun's sparkle, stored inher deep eyes, beamed joyously from them. She was a long vacationepitomised, idealised.
"May I say," he remarked at length, with the daring of her own freespirit, "that you are looking very well?"
For her part, she had been making a like survey of him. His tall figure,which had regained its old erectness, was enveloped in clothes that fitand set it off; and his clean-lined face, whose wanness had been drivenaway by the life in hers, looked distinguished against the background ofthe dark-green window hangings.
"You may," she returned, "if you will permit me to say the same of you."
"Of me? Oh, no. I'm an old man," he said exultantly. "Do you know howold I am?" He touched his head. "See! The gray hairs!"
"Yes--at least a dozen," she said gravely. "Such an old man!"
"Thirty-one! Isn't it awful?"
"Twenty-eight--that's worse for a woman!"
They looked at each other solemnly for a moment. Then she broke into alaugh that had the music of summer, and he joined her.
Her face became more serious, but all the sparkle remained in it. "Thereare so many things I want to talk over with you. One is a check myfather has just given me. Every autumn he gives me a sum to spend onphilanthropic purposes just as I see fit--he never asks me about it. Thecheck's for twenty thousand dollars. I thought you might have somesuggestions as to what to do with it--something in line with what wehave often talked about. But we'll speak of that and some other thingslater. First of all, have you heard anything from your book?"
"Not a word."
"You will--and favourably, I am sure. I want to say again what I'vewritten--I think it's splendid as a piece of literary work and splendidas a work of serious significance. And Uncle Henry is just asenthusiastic as I am."
David reddened with pleasure, and his enthusiasm, dead for over a monthnow, began to warm with new life. Her eyes were looking straight intohis own, and the love that had several times urged him beyond the limitsof discretion, now pressed him again--and again all his strength wasrequired to hold it silent.
"But come!--we were to walk, you know," she said, smiling lightly. "I'llprove that I'm the better walker."
During their silent passage through the halls to the Mission door, itreturned to him that she was the daughter of the man who, by aneven-toned word, had destroyed one of his hopes and utterly destroyedall of Rogers's. His high spirit, which had been but a weaker reflectionof her own, faded from his face, leaving it tired and drawn; and she,looking up at him, saw the striking change.
"Why, have you been ill?" she exclaimed.
A grim little smile raised the corners of his mouth. "No."
"Then you've been working too hard. What have you been doing since youfinished your book?"
He briefly told of his discharge and his acceptance of a position withRogers--and while he spoke his refluent bitterness tempted him to go onand tell her father's act of yesterday.
"But this was over a month ago," she said when he had ended. "Have theexpected developments in Mr. Rogers's business taken place?"
"Tell her all," Temptation ordered. He resisted this command, and thenTemptation approached him more guilefully. "Tell her all, only give nonames but yours and Rogers, and no clues that would enable her toidentify her father." This appealed to David's bitterness, and instantlyhe began.
He told her Rogers's true story, which of course he had as yet notdone--of Rogers's fight, so like his own--of Rogers's deception of theworld for ten years that he might live honestly--of his lonelinessduring that time, his fears, his secret kindnesses--of the first stagesof the real estate deal--of the vast meaning of success to Rogers, andof its meaning to himself--and finally of the happenings of the daybefore. "So you see," he ended, "this Mr. A. has utterly destroyed Mr.Rogers, in cold blood, merely that he might increase the profits of hiscompany."
She had followed him with tensest interest, and indignation's flame incheek and eye had grown higher and higher.
"Do you mean to say," she demanded, slowly, "that any man would do sucha thing as that?"
"Yes--and a most respected citizen."
"It was heartless!" she burst out hotly. "That man would do anything!"
It filled David with grim joy to hear her pass such judgment upon herown father. At that moment he was untroubled by a single thought as towhether he had acted honourably to betray her into pronouncing judgment.
"That man should be exposed!" she went on. "Honourable business menshould ostracise him. Won't you tell me his name? Perhaps my father cando something."
An ironic laugh leaped into David's throat. He checked it. "No, I cannottell his name."
Her indignation against the destroyer gave way to sympathy for thedestroyed. She saw Rogers defeated, despairing, utterly without chance.They came to David's street and her sympathy drew her into it.
"I'm so sorry for him!" she burst out. "So sorry! I wish I could dosomething. I'd like to go in and tell him what I feel--if you think hewouldn't mind that from a stranger."
"I'm afraid he would," said David, grimly.
They fell silent. As they drew to within a block of the house, David sawthe Mayor of Avenue A, whom he had left with Rogers, come down the stepsand start toward them, which was also toward the cafe. The Mayorrecognised them instantly, and a smile began to shine on his pink face.He had long been wanting to meet Helen, and now the chance was his. Hecame up, his overcoat spread wide at the demand of his vest, and,pausing, took off his hat with his best ball-room flourish.
"I've heard a great deal about you through Mr. Aldrich," Helen said,when David had introduced them. "I'm very happy to meet you."
"And I'm happy to meet you, miss," he returned, bowing, making agraceful sweep with his hat, and vigorously shaking the hand she hadgiven him. "And me, I've heard about you a lot--and that long before Isaw Mr. Aldrich.
"From St. Christopher's, I suppose."
"Yes, there--and elsewhere," said the Mayor, smiling gallantly. "On thesociety pages. I've seen lots o' pieces about you, and seen your picturethere among the beauties of society."
The Mayor expected to see her blush with gratification and ask formore--as women always did. But she quickly shifted to another subject.
"Mr. Aldrich has just been telling me of a business affair you, he andMr. Rogers have been engaged in."
"Oh, has he!"
The Mayor, in the agreeable experience of meeting Helen, had forgottenthere was such a person as her father. But he was the gallant no longer.His feet spread apart, his face grew stern, and he looked Helen squarelyin the eyes.
"Well," he demanded, "--and what do you think o' your father now?"
"My father?" she said blankly.
David caught his arm. "Keep still, Hoffman!" he cried roughly.
The Mayor looked from one to the other in astonishment. "What," hecried, "d'you mean you hadn't told her it was her father?"
The colour of summer faded slowly from Helen's face, and a hand reachedout and caught a stoop railing. Her eyes turned piercingly, appealingly,to David. After a moment she whispered, "My father--was that man?"
He nodded.
Her head sank slowly upon her breast, and for moment after moment shestood motionless, silent.
The
Mayor when he had thought of her as an instrument to strike herfather, had not thought the instrument itself might be pained. Filledwith contrition, he stammered: "Please, Miss, I'm sorry--I didn't meanto hurt you."
She did not answer; she seemed not to have heard. A moment later shelifted a gray, drawn face to David.
"Mr. Aldrich," she said tremulously, "will you please put me in a cab?"
* * * * *
In the cab she sat with the same stricken look upon her face. She had,as David had once said to the Mayor, always regarded her father as a manof highest honour. She had never felt concern in his business affairs,or any business affairs, despite the fact that her interests overreachedin so many directions the usual interests of women, and despite the factthat her heart was in various material conditions which business hadcreated and which business could relieve.
Seen from the intimate view-point of the home, her father was generousand kind. She had heard of the reports that circulated in the distantland of business, and she had glanced at some of the articles that hadappeared in years past in magazines and newspapers, and she knew thatstories were at this time current. Her conception of her father hadgiven the silent lie to all these reports. She believed they sprang fromjealousy, or false information, or a distorted view. They had troubledher little, save to make her indignant that her father was so maligned;and even this indignation had been tempered with philosophic mildness,for she had remembered that it had ever been a common fate of men ofsuperior purpose, or superior parts, or superior fortune, to bemisunderstood and to be hated.
But, all of a sudden, her conception of her father was shattered. Thisthing he had indubitably done was certainly not without the legal law,and perhaps not wholly without the cold lines of the moral--but it washard-hearted, brutal. "The man who would do that would do anything," shehad said to David; and all the way home in the cab this thought keptringing through her consciousness, and kept ringing for days afterwards.It led logically and immediately to the dread question: "After all, maynot these other stories be true?"
Helen did not belong to that easy-conscienced class who can eliminateunpleasantness by closing their eyes against it. She had to face herquestion with open vision--learn what truth was in it. She secured allshe could find in print about her father and read it behind the lockeddoor of her room. There was case after case in which her father, byskilful breaking of the law, or skilful compliance with it, or completedisregard of moral rights, had moved relentlessly, irresistibly, to hisends over all who had opposed him. The picture these cases drew was of aman it sickened her daughter-love to look upon--a man who was truly, asthe articles frequently called him, an "industrial brigand," and whosevast fortune was the "loot of a master bandit."
The articles seemed woven of fact, but she could not accept themunsubstantiated. She must know the truth--beyond a single doubt. At thesame time, she, her father's daughter, could not go to the men he hadwronged, demanding proof. At length she thought of her Uncle Henry, whomshe loved and trusted, and whom she knew to be intimately acquaintedwith her father's career.
To him she went one night and opened her fears. "Are these things true?"she asked.
And he said: "They are true."
She went away, grief-burdened, feeling that the whole structure of herlife was tottering. And two questions that before had been vaguelyrising, became big, sharp, insistent: What should be her attitude towardher father, whom she loved? And what should be her attitude toward hisfortune, which she shared?
