CHAPTER XV. AFTERMATH OF TRAGEDY.
The Gilders, both father and son, endured much suffering throughout thenight and day that followed the scene in Mary Turner's apartment, whenshe had made known the accomplishment of her revenge on the older manby her ensnaring of the younger. Dick had followed the others out ofher presence at her command, emphasized by her leaving him alone whenhe would have pleaded further with her. Since then, he had striven toobtain another interview with his bride, but she had refused him. He wasdenied admission to the apartment. Only the maid answered the ringing ofthe telephone, and his notes were seemingly unheeded. Distraught by thisviolent interjection of torment into a life that hitherto had known noimportant suffering, Dick Gilder showed what mettle of man lay beneathhis debonair appearance. And that mettle was of a kind worth while. Inthese hours of grief, the soul of him put out its strength. He learnedbeyond peradventure of doubt that the woman whom he had married wasin truth an ex-convict, even as Burke and Demarest had declared.Nevertheless, he did not for an instant believe that she was guilty ofthe crime with which she had been originally charged and for which shehad served a sentence in prison. For the rest, he could understand insome degree how the venom of the wrong inflicted on her had poisoned hernature through the years, till she had worked out its evil through thescheme of which he was the innocent victim. He cared little for thefact that recently she had devoted herself to devious devices for makingmoney, to ingenious schemes for legal plunder. In his summing of her,he set as more than an offset to her unrighteousness in this regard thedesperate struggle she had made after leaving prison to keep straight,which, as he learned, had ended in her attempt at suicide. He knewthe intelligence of this woman whom he loved, and in his heart wasno thought of her faults as vital flaws. It seemed to him rather thatcircumstances had compelled her, and that through all the sufferingof her life she had retained the more beautiful qualities of herwomanliness, for which he reverenced her. In the closeness of theirassociation, short as it had been, he had learned to know somethingof the tenderer depths within her, the kindliness of her, thewholesomeness. Swayed as he was by the loveliness of her, he was yetmore enthralled by those inner qualities of which the outer beauty wasonly the fitting symbol.
So, in the face of this catastrophe, where a less love must have beendestroyed utterly, Dick remained loyal. His passionate regard did notfalter for a moment. It never even occurred to him that he might casther off, might yield to his father's prayers, and abandon her. On thecontrary, his only purpose was to gain her for himself, to cherish andguard her against every ill, to protect with his love from every attackof shame or injury. He would not believe that the girl did not carefor him. Whatever had been her first purpose of using him only as aninstrument through which to strike against his father, whatever mightbe her present plan of eliminating him from her life in the future, hestill was sure that she had grown to know a real and lasting affectionfor himself. He remembered startled glances from the violet eyes, caughtunawares, and the music of her voice in rare instants, and these toldhim that love for him stirred, even though it might as yet be butfaintly, in her heart.
Out of that fact, he drew an immediate comfort in this period of hismisery. Nevertheless, his anguish was a racking one. He grew oldervisibly in the night and the day. There crept suddenly lines of newfeeling into his face, and, too, lines of new strength. The boy died inthat time; the man was born, came forth in the full of his steadfastnessand his courage, and his love.
The father suffered with the son. He was a proud man, intenselygratified over the commanding position to which he had achieved in thecommercial world, proud of his business integrity, of his standing inthe community as a leader, proud of his social position, proud most ofall of the son whom he so loved. Now, this hideous disaster threatenedhis pride at every turn--worse, it threatened the one person in theworld whom he really loved. Most fathers would have stormed at the boywhen pleading failed, would have given commands with harshness, wouldhave menaced the recalcitrant with disinheritance. Edward Gilder didnone of these things, though his heart was sorely wounded. He lovedhis son too much to contemplate making more evil for the lad by anyestrangement between them. Yet he felt that the matter could not safelybe left in the hands of Dick himself. He realized that his son lovedthe woman--nor could he wonder much at that. His keen eyes hadperceived Mary Turner's graces of form, her loveliness of face. He hadapprehended, too, in some measure at least, the fineness of her mentalfiber and the capacities of her heart. Deep within him, denied anyoutlet, he knew there lurked a curious, subtle sympathy for the girl inher scheme of revenge against himself. Her persistent striving towardthe object of her ambition was something he could understand, since thelike thing in different guise had been back of his own business success.He would not let the idea rise to the surface of consciousness, forhe still refused to believe that Mary Turner had suffered at his handunjustly. He would think of her as nothing else than a vile creature,who had caught his son in the toils of her beauty and charm, for thepurpose of eventually making money out of the intrigue.
Gilder, in his library this night, was pacing impatiently to and fro,eagerly listening for the sound of his son's return to the house. He hadbeen the guest of honor that night at an important meeting of the CivicCommittee, and he had spoken with his usual clarity and earnestness inspite of the trouble that beset him. Now, however, the regeneration ofthe city was far from his thought, and his sole concern was with theregeneration of a life, that of his son, which bade fair to be ruined bythe wiles of a wicked woman. He was anxious for the coming of Dick, towhom he would make one more appeal. If that should fail--well, he mustuse the influences at his command to secure the forcible parting of theadventuress from his son.
The room in which he paced to and fro was of a solid dignity, wellfitted to serve as an environment for its owner. It was very large, andlofty. There was massiveness in the desk that stood opposite the halldoor, near a window. This particular window itself was huge, high,jutting in octagonal, with leaded panes. In addition, there was a greatfireplace set with tiles, around which was woodwork elaborately carved,the fruit of patient questing abroad. On the walls were hung some piecesof tapestry, where there were not bookcases. Over the octagonal window,too, such draperies fell in stately lines. Now, as the magnate pacedback and forth, there was only a gentle light in the room, from areading-lamp on his desk. The huge chandelier was unlighted.... It waseven as Gilder, in an increasing irritation over the delay, had thrownhimself down on a couch which stood just a little way within an alcove,that he heard the outer door open and shut. He sprang up with anejaculation of satisfaction.
"Dick, at last!" he muttered.
It was, in truth, the son. A moment later, he entered the room, and wentat once to his father, who was standing waiting, facing the door.
"I'm awfully sorry I'm so late, Dad," he said simply.
"Where have you been?" the father demanded gravely. But there was greataffection in the flash of his gray eyes as he scanned the young man'sface, and the touch of the hand that he put on Dick's shoulder was verytender. "With that woman again?"
The boy's voice was disconsolate as he replied:
"No, father, not with her. She won't see me."
The older man snorted a wrathful appreciation.
"Naturally!" he exclaimed with exceeding bitterness in the heavy voice."She's got all she wanted from you--my name!" He repeated the words witha grimace of exasperation: "My name!"
There was a novel dignity in the son's tone as he spoke.
"It's mine, too, you know, sir," he said quietly.
The father was impressed of a sudden with the fact that, while thisaffair was of supreme import to himself, it was, after all, of stillgreater significance to his son. To himself, the chief concerns wereof the worldly kind. To this boy, the vital thing was something deeper,something of the heart: for, however absurd his feeling, the truthremained that he loved the woman. Yes, it was the son's name that MaryTurner had taken, as well as
that of his father. In the case of the son,she had taken not only his name, but his very life. Yes, it was, indeed,Dick's tragedy. Whatever he, the father, might feel, the son was, afterall, more affected. He must suffer more, must lose more, must pay morewith happiness for his folly.
Gilder looked at his son with a strange, new respect, but he could notlet the situation go without protest, protest of the most vehement.
"Dick," he cried, and his big voice was shaken a little by the forceof his emotion; "boy, you are all I have in the world. You will haveto free yourself from this woman somehow." He stood very erect, staringsteadfastly out of his clear gray eyes into those of his son. His heavyface was rigid with feeling; the coarse mouth bent slightly in a smileof troubled fondness, as he added more softly: "You owe me that much."
The son's eyes met his father's freely. There was respect in them, andaffection, but there was something else, too, something the older manrecognized as beyond his control. He spoke gravely, with a deliberateconviction.
"I owe something to her, too, Dad."
But Gilder would not let the statement go unchallenged. His heavy voicerang out rebukingly, overtoned with protest.
"What can you owe her?" he demanded indignantly. "She tricked you intothe marriage. Why, legally, it's not even that. There's been nothingmore than a wedding ceremony. The courts hold that that is only a partof the marriage actually. The fact that she doesn't receive you makes itsimpler, too. It can be arranged. We must get you out of the scrape."
He turned and went to the desk, as if to sit, but he was halted by hisson's answer, given very gently, yet with a note of finality that to thefather's ear rang like the crack of doom.
"I'm not sure that I want to get out of it, father."
That was all, but those plain words summed the situation, made the issuea matter not of advice, but of the heart.
Gilder persisted, however, in trying to evade the integral fact of hisson's feeling. Still he tried to fix the issue on the known unsavoryreputation of the woman.
"You want to stay married to this jail-bird!" he stormed.
A gust of fury swept the boy. He loved the woman, in spite of all; herespected her, even reverenced her. To hear her thus named moved him toa rage almost beyond his control. But he mastered himself. He rememberedthat the man who spoke loved him; he remembered, too, that the word ofopprobrium was no more than the truth, however offensive it might beto his sensitiveness. He waited a moment until he could hold his voiceeven. Then his words were the sternest protest that could have beenuttered, though they came from no exercise of thought, only out of thedeeps of his heart.
"I'm very fond of her."
That was all. But the simple sincerity of the saying griped the father'smood, as no argument could have done. There was a little silence. Afterall, what could meet such loving loyalty?
When at last he spoke, Gilder's voice was subdued, a little husky.
"Now, that you know?" he questioned.
There was no faltering in the answer.
"Now, that I know," Dick said distinctly. Then abruptly, the young manspoke with the energy of perfect faith in the woman. "Don't you see,father? Why, she is justified in a way, in her own mind anyhow, I mean.She was innocent when she was sent to prison. She feels that the worldowes her----"
But the older man would not permit the assertion to go uncontradicted.That reference to the woman's innocence was an arraignment of himself,for it had been he who sent her to the term of imprisonment.
"Don't talk to me about her innocence!" he said, and his voice wasominous. "I suppose next you will argue that, because she's been cleverenough to keep within the law, since she's got out of State Prison,she's not a criminal. But let me tell you--crime is crime, whether thelaw touches it in the particular case, or whether it doesn't."
Gilder faced his son sternly for a moment, and then presently spokeagain with deeper earnestness.
"There's only one course open to you, my boy. You must give this girlup."
The son met his father's gaze with a level look in which there was noweakness.
"I've told you, Dad----" he began.
"You must, I tell you," the father insisted. Then he went on quickly,with a tone of utmost positiveness. "If you don't, what are you going todo the day your wife is thrown into a patrol wagon and carried to PoliceHeadquarters--for it's sure to happen? The cleverest of people makemistakes, and some day she'll make one."
Dick threw out his hands in a gesture of supreme denial. He was furiousat this supposition that she would continue in her irregular practices.
But the father went on remorselessly.
"They will stand her up where the detectives will walk past her withmasks on their faces. Her picture, of course, is already in the Rogues'Gallery, but they will take another. Yes, and the imprints of herfingers, and the measurements of her body."
The son was writhing under the words. The woman of whom these thingswere said was the woman whom he loved. It was blasphemy to think ofher in such case, subjected to the degradation of these processes. Yet,every word had in it the piercing, horrible sting of truth. His facewhitened. He raised a supplicating hand.
"Father!"
"That's what they will do to your wife," Gilder went on harshly; "to thewoman who bears your name and mine." There was a little pause, and thefather stood rigid, menacing. The final question came rasping. "What areyou going to do about it?"
Dick went forward until he was close to his father. Then he spoke withprofound conviction.
"It will never happen. She will go straight, Dad. That I know. You wouldknow it if you only knew her as I do."
Gilder once again put his hand tenderly on his son's shoulder. His voicewas modulated to an unaccustomed mildness as he spoke.
"Be sensible, boy," he pleaded softly. "Be sensible!"
Dick dropped down on the couch, and made his answer very gently, hiseyes unseeing as he dwelt on the things he knew of the woman he loved.
"Why, Dad," he said, "she is young. She's just like a child in a hundredways. She loves the trees and the grass and the flowers--and everythingthat's simple and real! And as for her heart--" His voice was low andvery tender: "Why, her heart is the biggest I've ever known. It's justoverflowing with sweetness and kindness. I've seen her pick up a babythat had fallen in the street, and mother it in a way that--well, no onecould do it as she did it, unless her soul was clean."
The father was silent, a little awed. He made an effort to shake off thefeeling, and spoke with a sneer.
"You heard what she said yesterday, and you still are such a fool as tothink that."
The answer of the son came with an immutable finality, the sublime faithof love.
"I don't think--I know!"
Gilder was in despair. What argument could avail him? He cried outsharply in desperation.
"Do you realize what you're doing? Don't go to smash, Dick, just at thebeginning of your life. Oh, I beg you, boy, stop! Put this girl out ofyour thoughts and start fresh."
The reply was of the simplest, and it was the end of argument.
"Father," Dick said, very gently, "I can't."
There followed a little period of quiet between the two. The father,from his desk, stood facing his son, who thus denied him in all honestybecause the heart so commanded. The son rested motionless and lookedwith unflinching eyes into his father's face. In the gaze of each was agreat affection.
"You're all I have, my boy," the older man said at last. And now the bigvoice was a mildest whisper of love.
"Yes, Dad," came the answer--another whisper, since it is hard to voicethe truth of feeling such as this. "If I could avoid it, I wouldn't hurtyou for anything in the world. I'm sorry, Dad, awfully sorry----" Hehesitated, then his voice rang out clearly. There was in his tone, whenhe spoke again, a recognition of that loneliness which is the curse andthe crown of being:
"But," he ended, "I must fight this out by myself--fight it out in myown way.... And I'm going to do it!"