The Professor's House

Indians. "And he gave up a fine job firing on the Santa F?, and went off

  with Tom to ride after cattle for hardly any wages, just to be with Tom

  and take care of him after he'd had pneumonia," Kathleen told them.

  "That wasn't the only reason," Rosamond added dreamily. "Roddy was

  proud. He didn't like taking orders and living on pay cheques. He liked

  to be free, and to sit in his saddle all day and use it for a pillow at

  night. You know Tom said that, Kitty."

  "Anyhow, he was noble. He was always noble, noble Roddy!" Kathleen

  finished it off.

  After the first day, when he had walked into the garden and introduced

  himself, Tom never took up the story of his own life again, either with

  the Professor or Mrs. St. Peter, though he was often encouraged to do

  so. He would talk about the New Mexico country when questioned, about

  Father Duchene, the missionary priest who had been his teacher, about

  the Indians; but only with the two little girls did he ever speak freely

  and confidentially about himself. St. Peter used to wonder how the boy

  could afford to spend so much time with the children. All through that

  summer and fall he used to come in the afternoon and join them in the

  garden. In the winter he dropped in two or three evenings a week to play

  Five Hundred or to take a dancing-lesson.

  There was evidently something enchanting about the atmosphere of the

  house to a boy who had always lived a rough life. He enjoyed the

  prettiness and freshness and gaiety of the little girls as if they were

  flowers. Probably, too, he liked being so attractive to them. A flush of

  pleasure would come over Tom's face--so much fairer now than when he

  first arrived in Hamilton--if Kathleen caught his hand and tried to

  squeeze it hard enough to hurt, crying: "Oh, Tom, tell us about the time

  you and Roddy found the water hole dry, and then afterward tell us about

  when the rattlesnake bit Henry!" He would whisper: "Pretty soon," and

  after a while, through the open windows, the Professor would hear them

  in the garden: the laughter and exclamations of the little girls, and

  that singularly individual voice of Tom's--mature, confident, seldom

  varying in pitch, but full of slight, very moving modulations.

  He couldn't have wished for a better companion for his daughters, and

  they were teaching Tom things that he needed more than mathematics.

  Sitting thus in his study, long afterward, St. Peter reflected that

  those first years, before Outland had done anything remarkable, were

  really the best of all. He liked to remember the charming groups of

  three he was always coming upon,--in the hammock swung between the

  linden-trees, in the window-seat, or before the dining-room fire. Oh,

  there had been fine times in this old house then: family festivals and

  hospitalities, little girls dancing in and out, Augusta coming and

  going, gay dresses hanging in his study at night, Christmas shopping and

  secrets and smothered laughter on the stairs. When a man had lovely

  children in his house, fragrant and happy, full of pretty fancies and

  generous impulses, why couldn't he keep them? Was there no way but

  Medea's, he wondered?

  Chapter 11

  St. Peter had come in late from an afternoon lecture, and had just

  lighted his kerosene lamp to go to work, when he heard a light foot

  ascending the stairs. In a moment Kathleen's voice called: "May I

  interrupt for a moment, Papa?"

  He opened the door and drew her in.

  "Kitty, do you remember the time you sat out there with your bee-sting

  and your bottle? Nobody ever showed me more consideration than that, not

  even your mother."

  Kathleen threw her hat and jacket into the sewing-chair and walked

  about, touching things to see how dusty they were. "I've been wondering

  if you didn't need me to come in and clean house for you, but it's not

  so bad as they report it. This is the first time I've called on you

  since you've been here alone. I've turned in from the walk more than

  once, but I've always run away again." She paused to warm her hands at

  the little stove. "I'm silly, you know; such queer things make me blue.

  And you still have Augusta's old forms. I don't think anything ever

  happened to her that amused her so much. And now, you know, she's quite

  sentimental about their being here. It's about Agusta sic that I came,

  Papa. Did you know that she had lost some of her savings in the Kinkoo

  Copper Company?"

  "Augusta? Are you sure? What a shame!"

  "Yes. She was sewing for me last week. I noticed that she seemed

  depressed and hadn't much appetite for lunch--which, you know, is

  unusual for Augusta. She was ashamed to tell any of us about it, because

  it seems she'd asked Louie's advice, and he told her to invest in that

  company. But a lot of the people in her church were putting money into

  it, and of course that made it seem all right to her. She lost five

  hundred dollars, a fortune for her, and Scott says she'll never get a

  cent of it back."

  "Five hundred dollars," murmured St. Peter. "Let me see, at three

  dollars a day that means one hundred and sixty-six days. Now what can we

  do about it?"

  "Of course we must do something. I knew you'd feel that way, Father."

  "Certainly. Among us, we must cover it. I'll speak to Rosamond

  to-night."

  "You needn't, dear." Kathleen tossed her head. "I have been to her. She

  refuses."

  "Refuses? She can't refuse, my dear. I'll have a word to say." The

  firmness of his tone, and the quick rush of claret colour under his

  skin, were a gratification to his daughter.

  "She says that Louie took the trouble to speak to his banker and to

  several copper men before he advised Augusta; and that if she doesn't

  learn her lesson this time, she will do the same thing over again.

  Rosamond said they would do something for Augusta later, but she didn't

  say what."

  "Leave Rosamond to me. I'll convince her."

  "Even if you can do anything with her, she's determined to make Augusta

  admit her folly, and it can't be done that way. Augusta is terribly

  proud. When I told her her customers ought to make it up to her, she was

  very haughty and said she wasn't that kind of a sewing-woman; that she

  gave her ladies good measure for their money. Scott thought we could buy

  stock in some good company and tell her we had used our influence and

  got an exchange, but that she must keep quiet about it. We could manage

  some such little fib, she knows so little about business. I know I can

  get the Dudleys and the Browns to help. We needn't go to the

  Marselluses."

  "Wait a few days. It's a disgrace to us as a family not to make it up

  ourselves. On her own account, we oughtn't to let Rosamond out. She's

  altogether too blind to responsibilities of that kind. In a world full

  of blunders, why should Augusta have to pay scrupulously for her

  mistakes? It's very petty of Rosie, really!"

  Kathleen started to speak, stopped and turned away. "Scott will give a

  hundred dollars," she said a moment later.

  "That's very generous of hi
m. I'll give another, and Rosie shall make up

  the rest. If she doesn't, I'll speak to Louie. He's an absolutely

  generous chap. I've never known him to refuse to give either time or

  money."

  Kathleen's eyes suddenly brightened. "Why, Daddy, you have Tom's Mexican

  blanket! I never knew he gave it to you. I've often wondered what became

  of it." She picked up from the foot of the box-couch a purple blanket,

  faded in streaks to amethyst, with a pale yellow stripe at either end.

  "Oh, yes, I often get chilly when I lie down, especially if I turn the

  stove out, which your mother says I ought always to do. Nothing could

  part me from that blanket."

  "He wouldn't have given it to anybody but you. It was like his skin. Do

  you remember how horsey it smelled when he first brought it over and

  showed it to us?"

  "Just like a livery stable! It had been strapped behind the saddle on so

  many sweating cow-ponies. In damp weather that smell is still

  perceptible."

  Kathleen stroked it thoughtfully. "Roddy brought it up from Old Mexico,

  you know. He gave it to Tom that winter he had pneumonia. Tom ought to

  have taken it to France with him. He used to say that Rodney Blake might

  turn up in the Foreign Legion. If he had taken this, it might have been

  like the wooden cups that were always revealing Amis and Amile to each

  other."

  St. Peter smiled and patted her hand on the blanket. "Do you know,

  Kitty, I sometimes think I ought to go out and look for Blake myself.

  He's on my conscience. If that country down there weren't so

  everlastingly big--"

  "Oh, Father! That was my romantic dream when I was little, finding

  Roddy! I used to think about it for hours when I was supposed to be

  taking my nap. I used to swim rivers and climb mountains and wander

  about with Navajos, and rescue Roddy at the most critical moments, when

  he was being stabbed in the back, or drugged in a gambling-house, and

  bring him back to Tom. You know Tom told us about him long before he

  ever told you."

  "You children used to live in his stories. You cared more about them

  than about all your adventure books."

  "I still do," said Kathleen, rising. "Now that Rosamond has Outland, I

  consider Tom's mesa entirely my own."

  St. Peter put down the cigarette he had just lighted with anticipation.

  "Can't you stay awhile, Kitty? I almost never see anyone who remembers

  that side of Tom. It was nice, all those years when he was in and out of

  the house like an older brother. Always very different from the other

  college boys, wasn't he? Always had something in his voice, in his

  eyes...One seemed to catch glimpses of an unusual background behind his

  shoulders when he came into the room."

  Kathleen smiled wanly. "Yes, and now he's all turned out chemicals and

  dollars and cents, hasn't he? But not for you and me! Our Tom is much

  nicer than theirs." She put on her jacket and went out of the study and

  quickly down the stairs. Her father, on the landing, looked after until

  she disappeared. When she was gone he still stood there, motionless, as

  if her were listening intently, or trying to fasten upon some fugitive

  idea.

  Chapter 12

  St. Peter was breakfasting at six-thirty, alone, reading last night's

  letters while he waited for the coffee to percolate. It had been long

  since he had had an eight o'clock class, but this year the schedule

  committee had slyly put him down for one. "He can afford to take a taxi

  over now," the Dean remarked.

  After breakfast he went upstairs and into his wife's room. "I have a

  rendezvous with a lady," he said, tossing an envelope upon her

  counterpane. She read a note from Mrs. Crane, the least attractive of

  the faculty ladies, requesting an interview with the professor at his

  earliest convenience: as she wished to see him quite alone, might she

  come to his study in the old house, where she understood he still

  worked?

  "Poor Godfrey!" murmured his wife.

  "One ought not to joke about it--" St. Peter went into his room to

  get a handkerchief and came back, taking up his suspended sentence. "I'm

  afraid it means poor Crane is coming up for another operation. Or, worse

  still, that the surgeons tell her another would be useless. It's like

  The Pit and the Pendulum. I feel as if the poor fellow were strapped

  down on a revolving disk that comes around under the knife just so

  often."

  Mrs. St. Peter looked judicially at the letter, then at her husband's

  back. She didn't believe that surgery would be the subject of discussion

  when they met. Mrs. Crane had been behaving very strangely of late.

  Doctor Crane had married a girl whom no other man ever thought of

  courting, a girl of whom people always said: "Oh, she's so good!"

  chiefly because she was so homely. They had three very plain daughters,

  and only Crane's salary to live upon. Doctors and surgeons kept them

  poor enough.

  St. Peter kissed his wife and went forth quite unconscious of what was

  going on in her mind. During the morning he telephoned Mrs. Crane, and

  arranged a meeting with her at five o'clock. As the bell in the old

  house didn't work now, he waited downstairs on the front porch, to

  receive his visitor and conduct her up to his study. It was raining

  drearily, and Mrs. Crane arrived in a rubber coat, and a knitted sport

  hat belonging to one of her daughters. St. Peter took her wet umbrella

  and led her up the two flights of stairs.

  "I'm not very well appointed to receive ladies, Mrs. Crane. This was the

  sewing-room, you know. There's Augusta's chair, which she insisted was

  comfortable."

  "Thank you." Mrs. Crane sat down, took off her gloves, and tucked wisps

  of damp hair up under her crocheted hat. Her bleak, plain face wore an

  expression of grievance.

  "I've come without my husband's knowledge, Doctor St. Peter, to ask you

  what you think can be done about our rights in the Outland patent. You

  know how my husband's health has crippled us financially, and we never

  know when his trouble may come on worse again. Myself, I've never

  doubted that you would see it is only right to share with us."

  St. Peter looked at her in amazement. "But, my dear Mrs. Crane, how can

  I share with you what I haven't got? Tom willed his estate and royalties

  in a perfectly regular way. The fact that he named my daughter as his

  sole beneficiary doesn't affect me, any more than if he had named some

  relative of his own. I tell you frankly, I have never received one

  dollar from the Outland patent."

  "It's all the same if it goes to your family, Doctor St. Peter. My

  husband must be considered in this matter. He spent days and nights

  working with Outland. Tom never could have worked his theory out without

  Robert's help. He said so, more than once, in my presence and in the

  presence of others."

  "Oh, I believe that, Mrs. Crane. But the difficulty is that Tom didn't

  make any recognition of that assistance in his will."

  Mrs. Crane had set her head and advanced her long chin with meek r />
  determination. "Well, this is how it was, Professor. Mr. Marsellus came

  here a stranger, to put in the Edison power plant, just at the time the

  city was stirred up about Outland's being killed at the front. Everybody

  was wanting to do something in recognition of the young man. You brought

  Mr. Marsellus to our house and introduced him. After that he came alone,

  again and again, and he got round my husband. Robert thought he was

  disinterested, and was only taking a scientific interest, and he told

  him a great deal about what he and Outland had been working on. Then

  Rosamond's lawyers came for the papers. Tom Outland had no laboratory of

  his own. He was allowed the use of a room in the physics building, at my

  husband's request. He wanted to be there, because he constantly needed

  Robert's help. The first thing we knew, your daughter's engagement to

  Marsellus was announced, and then we heard that all Outland's papers had

  been given over to him."

  Here St. Peter anticipated her. "But, Mrs. Crane, your husband couldn't,

  and wouldn't, have kept Tom's papers. They had to be given over to his

  executor, who was my daughter's attorney."

  "Well, I could have kept them, if he couldn't!"--Mrs. Crane threw up her

  head as if to show that the worm had turned at last--"kept them until

  justice was done us, and some recognition had been made of my husband's

  part in all that research work. If he had taken the papers to court

  then, with all the evidence we have, we could easily have got an equity.

  But Mr. Marsellus is very smooth. He flattered Robert and got everything

  there was."

  "But he didn't get anything from your husband. Outland's papers and

  apparatus were delivered to his executor, as was inevitable."

  "That was poor subterfuge," said Mrs. Crane, with deep meaning. "You

  know how unworldly Robert is, and as an old friend you might have warned

  us."

  "Of what, Mrs. Crane?"

  "Why, that Marsellus saw there was a fortune in the gas my husband and

  his pupil had made, and we could have asked for our equity before we

  gave your son-in-law a free hand with everything."

  St. Peter felt very unhappy. He began walking up and down the little

  room. "Heaven knows I'd like to see Crane get something out of it, but

  how? How? I've thought a great deal about this matter, and I've blamed

  Tom for making that kind of will. I don't think it occurred to the boy

  that the will would ever be probated. He expected to come back from the

  war and develop the thing himself. I doubt whether Robert, with all his

  superior knowledge, would have known the twists and turns by which the

  patent could be commercialized. It took a great deal of work and a

  special kind of ability to do that."

  "A salesman's ability!" Mrs. Crane was becoming nasty.

  "If you like; but certainly Robert would have been no man to convince

  manufacturers and machinists, any more than I would. A great deal of

  money was put into it, too, before any came back; every cent Marsellus

  had, and all he could borrow. He took heavy chances. Crane and I

  together could never have raised a hundredth part of the capital that

  was necessary to get the thing started. Without capital to make it go,

  Tom's idea was merely a formula written out on paper. It had lain for

  two years in your husband's laboratory, and would have lain there for

  years more before he or I would have done anything about it."

  Mrs. Crane's dreary face took on more animation than he had supposed it

  capable of. "It had lain there because it belonged there, and was made

  there! My husband was done out of it by an adventurer, and his

  friendship for you tied his hands. I must say you've shown very little

  consideration for him. You might have warned us never to let those

  papers go. You see Robert getting weaker all the time and having those