The Forbidden Way

  *CHAPTER XIV*

  *FATHER AND SON*

  Father and son had dined together alone, and for most of the time insilence. Cornelius Bent had brought his business mien uptown with him,and Cortland, with a discretion borrowed of experience, made only themost perfunctory attempts at a conversation. Since the "Lone Tree"affair there had happened a change in their relations which each of themhad come to understand. Cortland Bent's successive failures in variousemployments had at last convinced his father that his son was not bornof the stuff of which Captains of Industry are made. The loss of themine had been the culminating stroke in Cortland's ill-fortune, andsince his return to New York he had been aware of a loss of caste in theold man's eyes. General Bent had a habit of weighing men by theirbusiness performances and their utility in the financial enterpriseswhich were controlled from the offices of Bent & Company. It was nothis custom to make allowances for differences in temperament in hisemployees, or even to consider their social relationships except in sofar as they contributed to his own financial well-being. He hadaccustomed himself for many years to regard the men under him asintegral parts of the complicated machinery of his office, each with itsown duty, upon the successful performance of which the whole fabricdepended. He had figured the coefficient of human frailty to a decimalpoint, and was noted for the strength of his business organization.

  To such a man an only son with incipient leanings toward literature,music, and the arts was something in the nature of a reproach upon thefather himself. Cort had left college with an appreciation of AEschylusand Euripides and a track record of ten-seconds flat. So far as BentSenior could see, these accomplishments were his only equipment for hiseventual control of the great business of the firm of which his fatherwas the founder. The Greek poets were Greek, indeed, to the General,but the track record was less discouraging, so Cortland began thebusiness of life at twenty-three as a "runner" for the bank, rising intime to the dignity of a post inside a brass cage, figuring discounts,where for a time he was singularly contented, following the routine witha cheerfulness born of desperation. As assistant to the cashier he wasless successful, and when his father took him into his own office laterand made him a seller of bonds, Cortland was quite sure that at last hehad come into his own. For the selling of bonds, it seemed, requiredonly tireless legs and tireless imagination--both of which he possessed.Only after a month he was convinced that bond sellers are born--notmade.

  The General, still hoping against hope, had now taken him back into hisoffice on a salary and an interest in business secured, and thus madehis son more or less dependent upon his own efforts for the means toenjoy his leisure. Father and son existed now as they had always done,on a basis of mutual tolerance--a hazardous relation which oftenthreatened to lead and often did lead to open rupture. To-nightCortland was aware that a discussion of more than usual importance wasimpending, and, when dinner was over, the General ordered the coffeeserved in the smoking room, the door of which, after the departure ofthe butler, he firmly closed.

  General Bent lit his cigar with some deliberation, while Cortlandwatched him, studying the hard familiar features, the aquiline nose, thethin lips, the deeply indented chin, wondering, as he had often wonderedbefore, how a father and son could be so dissimilar. It was a freak ofheredity, Nature's little joke--at Cornelius Bent's expense. TheGeneral sank into his armchair, thoughtfully contemplating his legs andemitting a cloud of smoke as though seeking in the common rite oftobacco some ground of understanding between his son and himself.

  "I want to speak to you about the Wrays," he said at last.

  Cortland's gaze found the fire and remained on it.

  "You are aware that a situation has arisen within the past few weekswhich has made it impossible for Bent & Company or myself personally tohave any further relations, either financial or social, with Jeff Wray?He has taken a stand in regard to his holdings in Saguache Valley whichI consider neither proper nor justifiable. To make short of a longmatter, I thought it best some weeks ago to forget the matter of themine and make Wray an offer for his entire interests in the SaguacheValley. It was a generous offer, one that no man in his position had aright to refuse. But he did refuse it in such terms that furthernegotiations on the subject were impossible."

  "Yes, sir, I know," put in his son.

  "Wray's rise is one of those remarkable combinations of luck andability--I'll concede him that--which are to be found in every communityonce in a decade. From obscure beginnings--God knows what the fellowsprang from--he has worked his way up in a period of three years to aposition of commanding influence. He owns the biggest independentsmelter in the West--built it, we now believe, with the intention ofunderbidding the Amalgamated. He has not done so yet because he hasn'tbeen sure enough of himself. But he's rapidly acquiring a notion thatnothing Jeff Wray can do will fail. That is his weak point--as it iswith every beggar on horseback. You are familiar with all of thesefacts. You've had some occasion," bitterly, "to form your own judgmentof the man. When you came East I was under the impression that, asidefrom business, there were other reasons, why you disliked him."

  "That is correct, sir," muttered Cortland, "there were."

  The General eyed his son sharply before he spoke again.

  "Am I to understand that those reasons still exist? Or----"

  "One moment, sir. I'd like to know just where this conversation isdrifting. My relations with Wray have never been pleasant. He isn'tthe type of man I've ever cared much about. No conditions that I'maware of could ever make us friendly, and, aside from his personality,which I don't admire, I'm not likely to forget the 'Lone Tree' mattervery soon."

  "H--m! That still rankles, does it? It does with me--with all of us.Oh, I'm not blaming you, Cort. If you had been a little sharper youmight have made one last investigation before you signed those papers.But you didn't, and that's the end of that part of the matter. What Iwant to know now is just what your relations with the Wray family are atthe present moment. You hate Wray, and yet most of your leisure momentsare spent in the company of his wife. Am I to understand----?"

  "Wait a moment, sir----" Cortland had risen and moved uneasily to thefireplace. "I'd prefer that Mrs. Wray's name be kept out of thediscussion. I can't see how my relations with her can have anybearing----"

  "They have," the General interrupted suavely. "If Mrs. Wray is toreceive your confidences I can't give you mine."

  "Thank you," bitterly. "I didn't know I had ever done anything towarrant such an attitude as this."

  "Tut! tut! Don't misunderstand me. Whatever your sins, they've alwaysbeen those of omission. I don't believe you'd betray me wilfully. Butintimacies with pretty women are dangerous, especially intimacies withthe wives of one's financial enemies; unless, of course, there's somemethod in one's madness."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm sorry I don't make my intention clear. If your friendship withMrs. Wray can be useful to Bent & Company I see no reason why itshouldn't continue. But if it jeopardizes my business plans in any way,it's time it stopped. In my office you are in a position and will, Ihope, in the near future be in a further position to learn all thebusiness plans of the Amalgamated and other companies. Of course, Idon't know how far Mrs. Wray enjoys the business confidences of-herhusband. But it is safe to assume that, being a woman, she knows muchmore than her husband thinks she does. I don't intend that you shouldbe placed in an embarrassing position with respect to her or withrespect to me. I'm on the point of starting the machinery of my officeon a big financial operation for the Amalgamated Reduction Company--theexact nature of which until the present moment has remained a secret.Your part in this deal has been mapped out with some care, and theresponsibilities I have selected for you should give you a sense of myrenewed faith in your capabilities. But you can't carry water on bothshoulders----"

  "You're very flattering, sir. I've never carried much water on eithershoul
der; and my relations with Mrs. Wray hardly warrant----"

  "I can't see that," impatiently. "You're so often together that peopleare talking about you. Curtis Janney has spoken to me about it. Ofcourse, your affair with Gretchen is one that you must work out foryourselves, but I'll confess I'm surprised that she stands for yourrather obvious attentions to a married woman."

  Cortland Bent smiled at the ash of his cigar. His father saw it andlost his temper.

  "I'm tired of this shilly-shallying," he snapped. "You seem to make apractice in life of skating along the edge of important issues. I'm notgoing to tolerate it any longer, and I've got to know just where youstand."

  "Well, dad," calmly, "where shall we begin? With Gretchen? Very well.Gretchen and I have decided that we're not going to be married."

  "What?"

  "We have no intention of marrying next year or at any other time."

  "Well, of all the----! Curtis Janney doesn't know this."

  "He should. Gretchen is in love with somebody else, and I----"

  "_You_! I understand. You are, too. You're in love with Jeff Wray'swife."

  He paused, but his son made no reply, though the old man watched hisface curiously for a sign. The General knocked his cigar-ash into thefire.

  "Is that true?"

  "Under the circumstances I should prefer not to discuss the matter."

  "Why? You and I haven't always been in sympathy, but the fact remainsthat I'm your father." The old man's long fingers clutched the chairarm, and he looked straight before him, speaking slowly. "I supposeyou've got to have your fling. I did. Every man does. But you'realmost old enough to be through that period now. There was never awoman in the world worth the pains and anxieties of an affair of thiskind. A woman who plays loose with one man will do it with another.The fashion of making love to other men's wives did not exist when I wasyoung."

  Cortland turned to the fire, his lips compressed, and with the tongsreplaced a fallen log.

  "When I was young," the old man went on, "a man's claim upon his wifewas never questioned. Society managed things better in those days.Ostracism was the fate of the careless woman; and men of your age whosought married women by preference were denied the houses of the younggirls of their own condition. If a fellow of your type had oats to sow,he sowed them with a decent privacy instead of bringing his mother, hissister, into contact----"

  Cortland straightened up, the tongs in his hand, his face pale withfury, saying in stifled tones:

  "For God's sake, stop, or I'll strike you as you sit."

  The General moved forward in his chair almost imperceptibly, and thecigar slipped from his fingers and rolled on the hearth. For a longmoment the two men looked into each other's eyes, the elder consciousthat for the first time in his life he had seen his son really aroused.There was no fear in the father's look, only surprise and a kind ofreluctant admiration for a side of Cortland's character he had neverseen. He sank back into his chair and looked into the fire.

  "Oh!" he muttered.

  "You had no right to speak of Mrs. Wray in those terms," said Cortland,his voice still quivering.

  "I'm sorry. I did not know."

  Cortland set down the fire tongs, his hands trembling, and put bothelbows on the mantel-shelf.

  "Perhaps, since you know so much," he said in a suppressed voice, "I hadbetter add that I would have married her if Wray hadn't."

  "Really? You surprise me."

  There was a moment of silence which proved to both men the futility offurther discussion.

  "If you don't mind, I'd rather we didn't speak of this. Mrs. Wray wouldunderstand your viewpoint less clearly than I do. She is not familiarwith vice, and she does not return my feeling for her. If she did, Ishould be the last person in the world she would see----"

  "I can't believe you."

  "It is the truth. Strange as it may seem to you and to me, she lovesher husband."

  "She married him for his money."

  Cortland was silent. Memory suddenly pictured the schoolroom at MesaCity where he had won Camilla and lost her in the same unfortunatehour--his hour of mistakes, spiritual and material--a crucial hour inhis life which he had met mistily, a slave of the caste which had bredhim, a trifler in the sight of the only woman he could love, just as hehad been a trifler before the world in letters and in business.

  "No," he replied. "She did not marry him for money. She marriedhim--for other reasons. She found those reasons sufficient then--shefinds them sufficient now." He dropped heavily, with the air of abroken man, into an armchair, and put a hand over his eyes as though thelight hurt them. "Don't try to influence me, sir. Let me think thisout in my own way. Perhaps, after what you've told me about theAmalgamated, I ought to let you know."

  "Speak to me freely, Cort," said the old man more kindly.

  "I don't want you to think of Camilla as the wife of Jeff Wray. I wantyou to think of her as I think of her--as herself--as the girl I knewwhen I first went West, an English garden-rose growing alone in theheart of the desert. How she had taken root there Heaven only knows,but she had--and bloomed more tenderly because of the weeds thatsurrounded her."

  He paused a moment and glanced at his father. General Bent had sunk deepin his chair, his shaggy brows hiding his deeply set eyes, which peeredlike those of a seer of visions into the dying embers before him. Aspell seemed to have fallen over him. Cortland felt for the first timein his life that there was between them now some subtle bond ofsympathy, unknown, undreamed of, even. Encouraged, he went on.

  "She was different from the others. I thought then it was because ofthe rough setting. I know now that it wasn't. She is the same herethat she was out there. I can't see anything in any other woman; Idon't want to see anything in any other woman. I couldn't make her out;it puzzled me that I could do nothing with her. After school hours--shewas the schoolmistress, you know, sir--we rode far up into themountains. She got to be a habit with me; then a fever. I didn't knowwhat was the matter except that I was sick because of the need of her.I didn't think of marriage then. She was nothing. Her father kept astore in Abilene, Kansas. I thought of you. All my inherited instincts,my sense of class distinction, of which we people in New York make sucha fetich, were revolted. But I loved her, and I told her so."

  Cortland sat up, then leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, andfollowed his father's gaze into the fire.

  "She was too clean to understand me, sir. I knew it almost before I hadspoken. In her eyes there dawned the horror, the fear, the self-pitywhich could not be said in words. Then Jeff Wray came in and I lefther--left Mesa City. There was--nothing else--to do."

  His voice, which had sunk to a lower key, halted and then was silent. Achiming clock in the hallway struck the hour; other clocks in daintyecho followed in different parts of the house; an automobile outsidehooted derisively; but for a long while the two men sat, each busiedwith a thread of memory which the young man had unreeled from the spoolof life. In the midst of his thoughts Cort heard a voice at his elbow,the voice of an old man, tremulous and uncertain, a softer voice thanhis father's.

  "It is strange--very, very strange!"

  "What is strange, sir?"

  Cornelius Bent passed his fingers before his eyes quickly andstraightened in his chair.

  "Your story. It's strange. You know, Cort, I, too, once loved a womanlike that--the way you do. It's an old romance--before your mother,Cort. Nobody knows--nobody in the East ever knew--even Caroline----"

  He stopped speaking as though he had already said too much, got upslowly and walked the length of the room, while Cortland watched him,conscious again of the sudden unusual sense of conciliation in themboth. At the other end of the room the General stood a moment, hishands behind his back, his gaze upon the floor.

  "I am sorry, Cort," he said with sudden harshness. And then, after apause, "You must not see Mrs. Wray again."

  Cortland's hands clenched until the knuckles were white
, and his eyesclosed tightly, as though by a muscular effort he might rob them of apersistent vision. When he spoke his voice was husky like that of a manwho had been silent for a long time.

  "You're right, sir--I've thought so for some days. But it's not so easy.Sometimes I think she needs me----"

  "Needs you? Don't they get along?"

  "I don't know. There are times when I feel that I am doing the rightsort of thing."

  "He doesn't abuse her?"

  "I don't know. She'd be the last person to speak of it if he did. ButI think she doesn't altogether want me to go."

  General Bent shook his head slowly. "No, Cort. It won't do. Whatyou've just told me makes your duty very clear--your duty to her andyour duty to yourself. There's danger ahead--danger for you both. Youmay not care for my advice--we've not always understood each other--butI hope you'll believe me when I say that I offer it unselfishly, withthe single purpose of looking after your own welfare. Leave New York.I'm prepared to send you West next week, if you'll go. There will be alot of work for us all. It's possible that I may go, too, before long.I can give you duties which will keep you busy so that you won't havetime to think of other things. When I first spoke to you of thisbusiness to-night I spoke as President of the Amalgamated ReductionCompany, now I am speaking to you as a father. I want you with us morethan ever--largely on our account, but more largely now upon your own.Will you go?"

  Cortland rose and leaned one elbow on the mantel.

  "You want me to help you in the fight for Wray's smelter?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Don't you want me to see her again?"

  "It's wiser not to. No good can come of it--perhaps a great deal ofharm."

  "She would not understand--she knows I dislike her husband, but it seemsto me I ought to tell her----"

  "That you're making financial war upon her husband? Forewarnhim--forearm him? What else would you say. That doesn't seem fair tome, does it?"

  He paused, watching his son narrowly and yet with a kind of stealthypity. Cortland's struggle cost him something.

  "I suppose you're right," he said at last. And then, turning aroundtoward his father, "I will not see her again. Give me the work, sir,and I'll do my best. Perhaps I haven't always tried to do that. I will,though, if you give me the chance."

  "Your hand on it, Cort. I won't forget this. I'm glad you spoke to me.It hasn't always been our custom to exchange confidences, but I'll giveyou more of mine if you'll let me. I'm getting old. More and more Ifeel the need of younger shoulders to lean on. I'm not all a businessdocument, but the habit of mercilessness grows on one downtown. Mercyhas no place in business, and it's the merciful man that goes to thewall. But I have another side. There's a tender chord left in mesomewhere. You've struck it to-night, and there's a kind of sweetness inthe pain of it, Cort. It's rusty and out of use, but it can still singa little."

  Cortland laid his hand on the old man's shoulder almost timidly, as hemight have done to a stranger.

  "You'll forgive me, father----?"

  "Oh, that"--and he took his son's hand--"I honor you for that, my son.She was the woman you loved. You could not hear her badly spoken of.Perhaps if I had known my duty--I should have guessed. Say nothingmore. You're ready to take my instructions?"

  "Yes--and the sooner the better."

  "Very good. You'll hear more of this to-morrow. I am--I'm a littletired to-night. I will see you at the office."

  Cortland watched him pass out of the door and listened to his heavy stepon the broad staircase. Cornelius Bent was paying the toll of hismerciless years.

  When he was gone, Cortland sank into the big chair his father hadvacated, his head in his hands, and remained motionless.