The Triumph of Virginia Dale
by John Francis · English · Gutenberg #34575 · 554,325 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Triumph of Virginia Dale
Author: John Francis
Illustrator: Haskell Coffin
John Goss
Release date: December 5, 2010 [eBook #34575]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/34575
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Roger Frank and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TRIUMPH OF VIRGINIA DALE ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Roger Frank and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: _VIRGINIA DALE_]
THE TRIUMPH OF VIRGINIA DALE
BY JOHN FRANCIS, JR.
WITH A FRONTISPIECE IN FULL COLOR
FROM A PAINTING BY W. HASKELL COFFIN
AND OTHER ILLUSTRATIONS FROM DRAWINGS
BY JOHN GOSS
BOSTON
THE PAGE COMPANY
MDCCCCXXI
Copyright, 1921
By The Page Company
All rights reserved
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
First Impression, August, 1921
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
DEDICATED
TO THE MEMORY OF
MY FATHER AND MOTHER
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
I HER MISSION IN LIFE 1
II THE MISSION BEGUN 17
III UNGIVEN ADVICE 29
IV THOSE DARKIES AGAIN 37
V ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN 45
VI IKE EXPLAINS 59
VII JOE PROVES INTERESTING 74
VIII ANOTHER OPPORTUNITY 97
IX HEZEKIAH HAS A SOLUTION 118
X AN AFTERNOON OFF 143
XI OLD HEARTS MADE YOUNG 161
XII MORE TROUBLE 183
XIII VIRGINIA HELPS AGAIN 195
XIV AN OUTING AND AN ACCIDENT 209
XV A MAN IN DISGRACE 236
XVI VIRGINIA MUST GO 262
XVII A FRIEND IN NEED 276
XVIII AUNT KATE LENDS A HAND 292
XIX OBADIAH "COMES-TO" 308
XX HIS JOURNEY'S END 330
XXI THE TRIUMPH 339
XXII NOBODY HOME, MR. DEVIL 353
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Virginia Dale (in full color) Frontispiece
"This request appeared to require deep thought" 155
"'I must choose between your way and the way of my Mother'" 251
"'I think that I shall love it,' she said softly" 261
"'You are my sweetheart,' the brazen Helen told him" 297
THE TRIUMPH OF VIRGINIA DALE
CHAPTER I
HER MISSION IN LIFE
Obadiah Dale was the richest man in South Ridgefield. He owned the great
textile mill down by the river where hundreds of people were employed
and which hummed and clattered from morning until night to add to his
wealth. He lived in a fine house. About it, broad lawns, shaded by
ancient elms and dotted with groups of shrubbery, formed a verdant
setting for the walls and massive porch pillars spotless in white paint.
Obadiah's only child was Virginia. She was a charming bit of girlhood
with a complexion so clear that it seemed pale in contrast to the black
hair and the clearly lined brows which arched those big, serious, blue
eyes.
On an afternoon in early June she was reading on the couch which swung
from the lofty ceiling of the porch when she became aware that some one
was coming up the walk from the gate. She arose and her face lighted
with happiness as she ran down the steps to greet a smartly dressed
woman of middle age. "Oh, Hennie dear," she cried, "I am so glad
that you've come."
The older woman laughed gaily as she caught the girl in her arms, "You
know I couldn't forget your birthday, Virginia."
"No, you wouldn't do that, Hennie. You don't come often," the girl
sighed, "but you always remember that."
Mrs. Henderson kissed her little hostess. Always had her big heart gone
out to this motherless maid. Long ago she had been the intimate friend of
Virginia's mother. Elinor Dale had died when her daughter was a year
old so that Hennie had a twofold reason for loving her young friend.
"It's good to have you here," exclaimed the girl as she drew her
visitor to a chair by the couch. "I wish you would come every day."
"Now, listen to that. Wouldn't it be better, please, for you to come
and see me instead of planning for a poor old woman,"--Mrs. Henderson
did not look the part--"who has twinges of rheumatism, to make daily
calls upon you?"
Virginia regarded her guest with great seriousness. "I come to your
house very often, Hennie. I was over the other day, but,"--she gave
another sigh,--"you were not home."
"I do remember. Carrie told me that you were over with Serena. I
supposed that you came to see her. I am on so many committees for
various charitable organizations----" She stopped short and reaching
over patted the girl's hand. "I am sorry that I was not home, dear.
I should remember that you are rather old to call upon my negro cook."
Virginia's eyes danced. "I must have called upon Carrie a thousand
times since I was a baby. A few more calls in your kitchen instead of
your parlor won't hurt me."
"Why are you laughing?" demanded Mrs. Henderson.
"I can tell you a secret about your own house but you must agree not to
use it against Carrie."
"I promise."
"Well, Hennie, you might be interested to know that refreshments are
served oftener in your kitchen than your parlor. I learned that years
ago."
"The very idea!" exclaimed the caller.
The girl's gaze wandered thoughtfully over the beautiful grounds. "I do
so love to have you here. I don't see very many people." Her voice
was wistful. "This big place gets lonesome sometimes. I think I envy
girls who live in houses with stoops on the sidewalk. They have the
cars, peddlers, policemen and lots of people going by all of the time.
It would be great fun to live that way." She was very sober now. "I
think that I want noises and lots of things going on. Am I very strange,
Hennie?"
"No indeed, all young people are that way," declared Mrs. Henderson
with emphasis. "I felt so myself, once. Of course, it is lonely for you
in this big house with only Serena. Your father is home for so short a
time each day."
"Please don't misunderstand me, I am not very lonely--only a
little bit. If something interesting--something exciting and wildly
adventurous--would happen, Hennie, it would be fine."
Mrs. Henderson smiled. "I am afraid that I can't help you in such
ways, dear, but I have something here which I am very sure that you will
dearly love." She drew forth a small parcel from her bag.
Virginia waited in pleased expectation. "I am going to adore it," she
cried joyously, as, accepting the package, she prolonged anticipation
by inspecting it curiously, "because you gave it to me."
"You will care for it for other reasons," replied the older woman
soberly.
Within the wrappings, the girl found a little volume, the cover of which
was much worn.
"Don't be misled by appearances," Mrs. Henderson suggested as Virginia
opened the book.
Upon the fly leaf, written in ink faded with age, was the name, Elinor
Clark. The girl's eyes opened wide in wonder and suppressed delight.
"It was my mother's book, Hennie?" she asked gently.
"Yes, dear, it was a girlhood possession of your mother. During her last
illness she gave it to me and asked me to see that you got it on your
eighteenth birthday. She explained that she didn't want to trouble
your father, yet she wanted you to have it. It was the last request
Elinor ever made of me." Mrs. Henderson's eyes winked suspiciously and
leaning forward she peered at the worn cover. When she spoke her voice
was husky with emotion. "It's a gift that you will always cherish,
dear."
A great tenderness swept over Virginia's face. "It's my mother's
birthday present to me, isn't it, Hennie?"--she almost whispered--"the
only one that I can remember."
As the older woman bowed her agreement, she moved over upon the couch by
the girl and for a time they were silent.
Virginia was the first to speak. "Tell me about my mother, please,"
she said softly, her hand caressing the cover of the book. "It makes
Daddy sad if I talk to him too much about her so I never do. But Hennie,
I should like to know more of her if I could."
"Bless your heart, I will gladly tell you everything I can, dear." She
was thoughtful for a moment and then resumed, "Your mother was three
years older than you are now when I first met her."
"And married," cried the girl in surprise, "I never thought of my
mother as so young. I pictured her as much older."
"Old, nonsense! Your mother was my age. She was hardly grown at the time
of her death."
"Where did my father meet her? I know that she lived down South. Serena
is always talking about the old home."
"He met her here in South Ridgefield. He had come here from New England
and started his mill. It was small in those days, but prosperous.
Social affairs had little attraction for your father. That made him
very interesting to us girls. I suppose too we did not forget that he
was making lots of money and could give the girl of his choice everything
she desired. He had been here four or five years when the marriage
took place. Its announcement caused much excitement among us young
people. We had given your father up as a hopeless old bachelor. Think
of it, in a week, your mother snatched the best catch from under the
noses of the South Ridgefield girls." Mrs. Henderson laughed gaily.
"Elinor did that very thing."
"My mother must have been very beautiful?"
"She was, every one admitted that, but she had the advantage in another
way. She came from Virginia after her father's death to settle some
business affairs with your father." Again Mrs. Henderson laughed.
"The girls used to say that he took Elinor in full settlement of all
indebtedness. After the marriage he built this house and you were born,"
she pointed upwards, "in that big corner room on the second floor."
"Please go on, Hennie," begged the girl, after a pause in which the
older woman's thoughts wandered in the past.
"I was thinking of the good times I've had in this house. Your mother
used to give delightful dances."
"Dances, _here_!" Virginia's astonishment was evident.
"Certainly, I have danced here many times until three o'clock in the
morning and thought nothing of it."
"You danced, too?" It was as if the girl were shocked.
"Of course I danced. Do you think I was a wall flower who could lure no
partners to myself?" Mrs. Henderson demanded with spirit. "Remember, I
had been married only a year. There were grand dinners, too." She went
on more calmly. "How we enjoyed Serena's cooking and afterwards many
is the gay crowd this porch sheltered in those days."
"It is hard to imagine, Hennie." The girl shook her head soberly.
"Daddy and I are so quiet. We sit here in the evenings and I talk until
he falls asleep. Then I watch the fire-flies until he wakes up and we
go to bed. The thought of him dancing is very strange."
There was a note of pity in Mrs. Henderson's voice when she spoke, "To
be sure it is, dear. I never said that your father danced. He seemed
to enjoy having people here. It was your mother, though, who loved that
sort of thing and her word was law to him in everything. She depended on
Hezekiah Wilkins to set the pace by wielding a rhythmic toe, as he used
to call it." A smile of gay memories died in her eyes at more solemn
thoughts. "Those good times lasted only a couple of years. Your mother
was taken ill and then--" she paused and continued softly, "--one
afternoon she went away from the room upstairs and left you, dear,"
her voice caught, "to Serena and me."
Mrs. Henderson's arm went about the girl but in a moment she resumed,
"After the death of your mother your father devoted himself to money
making again. It took all of his time." There was a flash of anger in
her eye. "He has succeeded very well in that."
Mrs. Henderson arose hastily. "Dear me, child, I am staying too long.
You should go to some of these youthful affairs about town. I imagine
that the boys and girls of South Ridgefield have some very good times."
The girl's eyes lighted with interest but in a moment it had gone,
replaced by a thoughtful little smile. "Daddy would be lonely without
me. I ought not to leave him alone in the evening."
Again the angry glint came in Mrs. Henderson's eyes, but she controlled
herself and said quietly, "You are the best judge of that, dear. But
now that you have finished school you should have something to occupy
your time. I know that Serena would have you play great lady, but,
with due respect to her ideas, you will find it a lonely game in these
busy days. Why don't you give some of your time to helping those not so
fortunate as you? Think it over, child," she urged as she left.
After her caller had departed Virginia returned to the couch and with
intense interest gave herself up to the examination of the book which had
been her mother's.
A negress of uncertain age appeared in the doorway of the house. Her hair
was streaked with grey and she was enormously fat. She wore a calico
dress over the front of which stretched a snowy white apron, its strings
lost in a crease of flesh at the waist line. Bound about her head was a
white handkerchief and her sleeves were rolled to her elbows.
She moved about the porch replacing the wicker furniture. Stopping by
the couch she rearranged some magazines, and then, "Honey chil', ain'
you gwine git dressed? De clock done struck fo'."
"In a minute."
Serena's eyes wandered to the side lawn. Instantly her attention was
riveted upon certain objects protruding from some shrubbery. They were
conspicuous and unusual as lawn decorations, bulking large beside a
recumbent lawn mower, a rake and grass shears.
"You Ike," she shouted. The objects moved convulsively. "Wot you
mean a sleepin' under dat bush?" The commotion in the shrubbery ceased
and the objects reappeared in their normal position as the feet of a
sleepy-eyed negro youth.
"Ah ain' a sleepin' none, Miss Sereny, ah was a layin' under dat bush
a ca'culatin' whar ah gwine to trim it."
"You got a po' haid fo' figgers den. You computen all dis yere
afternoon, ah guesses. Ma eye is on you, boy. Go change you' clothes
an' git dat ca'ah down to de office a fo' you is late."
Ike gathered the tools and disappeared in haste.
Serena turned again to the girl, who had displayed but slight interest
in the sleeping laborer. "It gittin' mighty late, chil'."
"Yes, I know, Serena."
"You bettah dress you'se'f."
"Please, only a little longer."
"You gwine be fo'ced to be mighty spry den," warned the old negress
as she waddled into the house.
"Oh, how wonderful," breathed the girl, a great joy suddenly showing in
her face. "It's for me--from mother. Really."
The worn volume lay open in her lap. It contained selections from the
works of many poets. Upon the page before her these lines, taken from
Coleridge's, "The Ancient Mariner," were printed,
"He prayeth best who loveth best
All things both great and small:
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all."
They were heavily underlined. In the broad margin was written in a
tremulous hand which displayed the effects of illness,
"My darling little daughter--
--live these lines. ELINOR DALE."
A vast tenderness enfolded the girl. She reread the lines. "My mother
is telling me how to live," she whispered. "Her voice is calling to me
through all the years--the only time." She touched her lips impulsively
to the place where the cherished hand had rested and then, clasping the
book to her breast, she closed her eyes and remained so for awhile. When
her lids raised anew, the blue eyes were filled with a great yearning
as she breathed softly and reverently as if in prayer, "Yes, mother."
A little later, Virginia entered the house and Serena told her, "Ah done
lay out yo'all's clothes, honey chil'. Ef you want anythin' else jes
yell."
The girl dreamily climbed the broad staircase. At the bend she remembered
something, and, turning back, smiled down at the old colored woman below.
"Thank you, Serena," she called.
Amply rewarded, the faithful servant contentedly busied herself once more
with the affairs of the Dale household. From that far away day when she
had, "'cided ah gwine foller Miss Elinor to de no'th," she had been
recognized by well informed persons as one in authority in that home.
It was Serena who first held Virginia in her arms and tenderly rocked the
squirming red mite across her ample bosom. During those long days and
nights of watching in the last illness of Elinor Dale, it was Serena
who, with undisguised distrust of the trained nurse, was in and out of
the sick room almost every hour. It was Serena who closed Elinor Dale's
eyes, and it was Serena who held the motherless child with great tears
rolling down her black face as she stood by the open grave.
No formal agreement held Serena after the death of her mistress. She saw
the home as a storm tossed craft, from whose deck the navigator had been
swept, drifting aimlessly upon the sea of domesticity. Unhesitatingly,
she had assumed the vacant command which carried with it the mothering
of Virginia.
In the early months of his bereavement, Obadiah Dale gave some attention
to the establishment which he had created for his wife's enjoyment.
Yet all things followed a well managed routine and, more important than
all to a man of his nature, the monthly bills evidenced economical
judgment. Quick to recognize a valuable subordinate, Obadiah saw no
necessity for immediate change.
Serena had excellent ideas in child training. Although in her mind
Virginia was a young lady of position who could properly demand
appropriate attention, yet must she learn to meet the responsibilities
of her station.
Obadiah was assured that his daughter in Serena's charge was in the
care of one who loved her. From time to time he made vague plans for
the child's future. As they were to commence at an indefinite time
they never materialized. More and more the business activities of the
manufacturer occupied his time, and slowly but surely the duty of
Virginia's upbringing was shifted to the negro woman.
When Virginia was five, Serena told her employer, "Dis yere chil'
orter be in school a learnin' mo' an' ah kin teach her," and so
the mill owner's daughter was started upon her scholastic career at a
kindergarten.
Obadiah never knew the worries of this illiterate negro woman in
planning suitable clothing for his child. No man could appreciate that
watchful eye ever ready to copy styles and materials from the garments
of children of families deemed worthy as models.
Virginia's education was continued under the guidance of a Miss Keen
who conducted a select school for young ladies in South Ridgefield. This
institution, highly esteemed as a seat of learning by Serena, offered
courses usually terminating when pupils refused longer to attend the
establishment. In its most prosperous years its enrollment never exceeded
twenty misguided maidens.
Now, Virginia had arrived at the age of eighteen, a serious, rather shy
girl, whose youth had been spent under the supervision of an old negro
woman, narrowed by the influence of a small school and neglected by a
busy father.
When Obadiah came home that night for dinner, she met him in the hall.
He was a very tall man and extremely thin. His sharp features gave a
shrewd expression and his smooth shaven face displayed a cruel mouth
and an obstinate jaw.
"Hello, Daddy dear," cried the girl as she held up her mouth to be
kissed. She gave a happy little laugh when he pinched her cheek, and
demanded of him, "What day is this?"
"Tuesday," he answered indifferently, "the tenth of June."
"Can't you think of anything else?"
He looked puzzled. "It's not a holiday, is it?"
"No, but it's my birthday, Daddy dear."
He displayed some interest now. "Is that so? How old are you today?"
"I am eighteen," she explained proudly. "Serena made me a cake with
candles. She brought it in at lunch. She said it might bother you,
tonight." She looked up at him quickly. "Do you love me, Daddy?"
"Surely," he answered absently and shaking his iron grey head he
ascended the stairs to prepare for dinner, muttering, "Time flies--how
time flies."
He joined his daughter again in the dining room in response to the
gong. Serena had planned the meal with due regard to the fact that the
day had been warm. A lobster, magnificent in its gorgeousness, reposed
upon a bed of lettuce on the platter before Obadiah. A potato salad
flanked it and a dish of sliced tomatoes reflected the color scheme of
the crustacean. Dainty rolls, Serena's pride, peeped from the folds
of a napkin and the ice clinked refreshingly in the tall tumblers of tea
as they were stirred.
Sometimes Virginia and her father chatted, but there were long silences.
At intervals, Serena, noiselessly in spite of her weight, appeared to
replenish or change a dish and to see that all things were in order.
As they waited for the table to be cleared for dessert, the girl said
wistfully, "I wish that I could help somebody, Daddy."
He looked at her curiously. "What ever put that into your head? You are
a help to me sitting there and smiling at me."
"Oh, but that's not much. To sit at a table and smile and eat good
things only helps oneself."
"Well, why should you want to help anybody but you and me?"
She gazed at him thoughtfully. "Don't joke, Daddy. I know I would be
happier if I could do something for some one."
Obadiah chuckled. "Where did you get that idea? I am perfectly happy
tonight, and I haven't bothered myself about other people."
"The very idea. All this livelong day you have been planning for those
who work in your mill."
A sudden light came to him, he chuckled again. "Surely, I look after
my employees or they would look after me."
"That makes you happy." Virginia was certain that she had made her
point.
"No," Obadiah shook his head vigorously, "my employees make me angry
more than they make me happy. My happiness is the result of my own
efforts."
"That is what I mean, Daddy. You have had such great opportunities to
make yourself happy." She viewed him with eyes of fond admiration. "You
have accomplished so much."
Obadiah was filled with a comfortable egotism. "I have accomplished
a whole lot," he boasted. His mind was upon his commercial success and
the wealth he had accumulated. "I'm not through," he bragged. He
became thoughtful as he dwelt upon certain fertile fields awaiting
his financial plough. His jaw set. He had rivals who would contest his
tillage. He would fight as he had always fought. His eyes glistened
beneath his shaggy brows as he sensed the fray.
The conversation languished as they ate their dessert, but Obadiah's
pride of accomplishment had not departed. "I am going to do bigger
things than ever before," he exulted. "When you are older you will
realize what I have done for you," he explained as they went out on
the porch.
For a time the girl and the old man followed their own thoughts while
the fire-flies sparkled and gleamed about the lawn as if they were
the flashlights of a fairy patrol. Emma Virginia was thinking of her
father's words. He was going to do more for her. She must certainly
share her blessings.
"Daddy dear, do you mind if I help some one?" she asked gently.
"Back on that?" he demanded with a note of sharpness.
She gave an emphatic little nod. "It is very important. I--I--can't
tell you now, why," she hesitated. "I should feel much better, though."
"You are not sick, are you?" Obadiah worried.
"Oh, no indeed, perfectly well. Only, I am sure that I would be much
happier if I could do something for someone else. I don't know whom.
That doesn't make any difference."
"What a strange idea!" It seemed to bother Obadiah. "You want to help
someone but you don't know whom." He considered a moment. "Here's
my advice. Help somebody who can help you."
"Now you are teasing me, Daddy?" she protested. "I am really serious
about this. I want to be of more use in the world." Her voice was very
soft and gentle now. "I know that I should share my blessings and I
want to do it. It is such a comfort to talk things over with you, Daddy
dearest." She moved quietly over to him and seated herself upon his lap.
As she touched him, he jumped. "Gracious, you startled me so, Virginia.
I was asleep."
"Please, Daddy, don't mind," she whispered, "I'll be quiet as a
mouse."
Almost grudgingly, he let her settle herself and drop her head against
his shoulder. In a moment his head slipped down against the soft hair
of the girl and Obadiah dozed anew.
She murmured softly, "It was so easy to explain to you. Serena wouldn't
understand, I am afraid. All of your life, Daddy, you have been helping
other people."
"Whom?" asked Obadiah in alarm, starting up and shaking the girl's
head from his shoulder.
"Daddy, wake up. You were asleep while I was talking to you." She tried
to kiss him as he rubbed his eyes, but his arms were in her way. "You
are such a comfort, Daddy. I wish I could be like you," she said softly.
"You can try," conceded Obadiah immodestly. "You are keeping me up.
I am tired. I want to go to bed. My legs are asleep from your sitting on
them," he complained and then told her shortly, "The place for you to
dream is in bed, not on my lap."
CHAPTER II
THE MISSION BEGUN
Obadiah Dale's car was waiting at his home. It stood upon the gravel
driveway opposite the steps at the end of the porch. Virginia was seated
in the rear seat and her eyes rested seriously upon Serena, who from the
higher floor of the porch, viewed Ike, lounging by the car, as from a
rostrum.
The young negro was attired in a neat livery which gave him a natty
aspect distinctly absent when his siesta was disturbed by Serena.
Regardless of his more attractive guise, however, he shifted nervously
under her stern gaze. He, who ever bore himself, in hours of leisure,
before the black population of South Ridgefield as one of imperial
blood, was abashed before her. That poise, that coolness of demeanor,
that almost insolent manner exhibited at crap games, chicken fights or
those social functions where the gentler sex predominates, was absent
now. Before Serena, his lofty soul became as a worm, desirous of burying
itself from the pitiless light of publicity.
"You Ike," she said with great severity, "mine wot ah say. Stop you'
fas' drivin'. Miss Virginy ain' wantin' to go shootin' aroun' dis
yere town lak er circus lady in er cha'iot race."
The girl displayed interest in the remark, but remained silent.
Ike climbed into the car and sought support from the steering wheel.
In a gentle manner, as if desirous of averting wrath, he made answer,
"Ah ain' no speeder, Miss Sereny. Ah is de carefulest chauffah in dis
town. Ah sez, 'Safety fust.' Dat's ma motta." At the sound of his
own voice he gained in assurance. He had acquired these statements by
heart from frequent repetition.
"Wat you down in dat co't fo', den?" inquired Serena. "Mr. Dale he
done say, he gittin' tired er payin' fines fo' yo'all. He say de
nex' time he gwine ax de jedge to let you rot in dat calaboose."
Ike listened to this promise of extended incarceration with the casual
interest due an oft repeated tale. Disregarding it, he continued, "Ah
goes to co't 'count o' de inexpe'ienced drivers." He spoke as an
expert. "Ef dey had 'spe'ienced drivers dey ain' gwine be no trouble
a tall."
"Dey bettah be no mo' trouble," snapped Serena, "les yo'all gits in
worse. G'wan now 'bout you' business. Take Miss Virginy down to de
sto' an' den out on de river road. You gotta git back in time to bring
her pa home fo' lunch." The solution of a difficult problem dawned
upon her and instantly she returned to her former argument. "Don' you
drive dat caah no fas'er den er hoss an' er ker'idge kin go," she
commanded.
It is of record that even a worm upon extreme irritation will fall upon
its tormentor. Thus Ike reacted to this notable example of feminine
ignorance. "How's ah gwine mek dis yere high powah caah run dat slow?
Ah ast you dat? How's ah gwine do it?"
Apparently heedless of this incipient rebellion, Serena gave her
attention to her young mistress, "Good bye, honey chil'," she
worried. "Don' you mek youse'f sick on sody an' ice cream."
Virginia smiled sweetly at the now beaming black face of the negro woman.
"I'll be very careful," she promised.
Serena devoted herself again to her minion. "You Ike, go slow. Go mighty
cafful. Dat's wot ah say."
He looked askance at her. Every vestige of humor had departed from the
black face replaced by a cold, implacable glare. Without a word, he
started the machine and it glided down the drive.
Her purchases completed, Virginia sat musing upon the message from her
mother as the big car hummed softly towards the quiet beauty of the river
road. Vague plans, indefinite as dreams, floated through her mind.
Ike was obeying Serena's wishes so faithfully that the absence of
excitement, so essential to the display of what he considered his best
talents, was almost lulling him to sleep.
A large bill board fenced the front of a vacant lot, on their way. A
magnificent example of the lithographer's art, as adapted to the
advertising needs of a minstrel show, was posted upon it. It's
coloring, chiefly red, was effective and forceful and displayed an
extravagant disregard of the high cost of ink. It portrayed the
triumphant passage of the Jubilee Minstrels. The brilliant uniforms,
the martial air of the musicians as well as the exceeding pleasure with
which this aggregation appeared to be welcomed by the reviewing
public, was of a character to please, to impress, yes, even to stun
all beholders, except the blind.
This picture caught the soul of Ike as he came within the scope of its
influence. To him, applause and admiration were as strong drink. Envy
knocked at his heart as he beheld the bright raiment. He visualized
himself, thus dazzlingly attired, exhibited to his admiring fellow
townsmen. Violating speed laws was infantile piffle to this. A syncopated
melody, appropriate to a victorious march, blared in memory's ear.
He hummed it softly. His body twitched to the rhythm and his feet took up
the cadence. He pressed a pedal and the powerful car accelerated its
motion well above the modest limits commanded by Serena. To the shell of
Ike, the increased speed was but a return to normal. His spirit was
away. Expanding as a morning-glory to the sun, it paraded, in wondrous
garments, to martial music, before gaping thousands.
A turn in their way was before them. Ike partially roused himself from
his sweet dreams and automatically attended to the necessities of the
moment. These included no slackening of speed.
The car swung a corner and instantly thereafter there came a mighty
groaning of brakes as it was finally stopped in the midst of what had
been an orderly procession of small negro children. The startling arrival
of the big machine had scattered them, with shrill cries and screams,
in every direction.
Virginia was alarmed at the sudden halt and at the frightened outcries
of the youngsters. She leaped out. On the curb an excited colored woman
was holding a weeping black boy by the hand. He was very small and,
because of a deformed leg, used a crutch. Between efforts to reassemble
her scattered charges, she endeavored to calm and comfort him.
Hurrying to the woman, Virginia cried, "I'm so sorry."
"Much good sorry gwine do after you kill somebody," shouted the woman,
much angered by the occurrence. "Ain' you got no bettah sense 'en to
run down a lot o' chillun?"
"It would have been terrible if we had hurt one of them. I never would
have forgiven myself. We couldn't see them until we turned the corner."
In her excitement she sought friendly support. "Could we, Ike?"
To Ike, it was a duty from which much pleasure could be derived to
take part in any controversy. Likewise, one acquires merit, when one
is a chauffeur, by strongly maintaining the contention of one's
mistress--she may reciprocate in a difficult hour. Ike turned an
unfriendly countenance upon the woman, and asked for information, "How
ah gwine see 'roun' er corner? Does you 'spect dat ma eyes is
twisted?"
"Go long, man. Mine you' own business."
Not thus summarily was Ike to be dismissed. "Dese yere chillun ain' no
call to be in de street. Howcum 'em der? Ain' it yo'all's business
to keep 'em outen de way?" A uniformity in costume struck him. "Ain'
dey orphant chillun runnin' loose?"
"Orphans! The poor things!" Virginia cried.
"Wot ef dey is orphants?" the woman protested with great belligerence.
"Den," Ike behaved as if he, a public spirited citizen, had discovered
the warden of a penitentiary seeking pleasure beyond the walls with
notorious criminals, "howcum dey heah? Wharfo?"
The suspicion and force in the chauffeur's manner brought fresh tears to
orphan eyes.
Encouraged by these evidences of public attention, Ike continued his
investigation. "Ah axes you woman, why ain' dey in de 'sylum whar
dey 'long?"
The chauffeur's words had not soothed the guardian of the children. She
showed unmistakable signs of increasing wrath. Glaring fixedly at him,
she blazed, "Mine you' own business, you black po'cupine."
Although the application of the epithet was obscure, its effect was
all that could be desired. Ike suffered a species of fit. His mouth
opened and closed without sound. His wildly rolling eyes exposed wide
areas of white and then glued themselves in invenomed hatred upon the
woman. Muscles contracted and worked in his neck. Even as a panther, he
appeared about to spring upon his foe.
Virginia interfered. Her experience of life was limited, but she
understood the negro. "Don't get out of the car, Ike," she ordered.
"Ef dat spindle legged dude git outen dat caah, ah is boun' to bus'
his haid wid ma fist," predicted the woman.
Virginia feared no blood shed but deemed it desirable to take steps to
avoid an argument certain to be loud and long and to add nothing to her
dignity as a bystander. She answered Ike's inquiries herself. "The
children were out walking, I suppose, and had to cross the street?"
This overture slightly mollified the woman but she yet viewed the
porcupine with distinct hostility.
"Are all of these poor children orphans?" continued Virginia, shaking
her head at the pity of it.
"Yas'm, dey's all orphants f'om the Lincoln Home, up de street."
"And you had them out for their daily walk?"
"No, mam, dey gits out onest er week. Ah ain' got no time to take 'em
out every day."
Virginia looked at the woman very thoughtfully. "Your work makes you
very happy, doesn't it?" she asked.
"Ah ain' heard o' no kind er wo'k mekin' nobody happy. Ah jes allers
was, an' allers is happy. Dat's me," the woman explained.
"Why, you are a mother to all of those children."
"Yas'm, de onlies' mother dey gwine git, ah guesses." The woman
viewed her reassembled charges speculatively. She patted the little
cripple at her side. "Po' li'l Willie, he cain't walk ve'y fas',
kin you, sweetheart?"
"You poor little fellow," sighed Virginia.
"Ah bettah tote you, Willie. We gotta move right smart afo' noon an'
you ain' ve'y spry on dat crutch." Picking up the lame boy, the woman
began to issue instructions for the advance of her forces.
Virginia surveyed the manoeuvering orphans comprehensively. "If I could
get them all into the car I would take them for a ride," she exclaimed,
and then, "They can be crowded in, I believe. May they go?"
The woman regarded the girl in great astonishment. "Cou'se dey kin
go eff yo'all wants 'em." Her conscience appeared to demand a
further warning. "Dey is er powe'ful mouthy and mischievous lot o'
rascallions."
Ike was disgusted. To be required to act as chauffeur for a crowd of
screaming infants of his own race was another wound to that dignity so
recently and fearfully lacerated. He submitted protest. "Dis yere caah
ain' gwine hol' all dem chillun. It ain' no dray. Dey gwine bus' de
springs smack bang offen it."
"If the car breaks down you can have them fix it at the garage, Ike.
They always have been able to mend it," Virginia told him with great
complacency as she proceeded with her plans.
"Ef all de chillun stan' close, 'ceptin fo' or five wid li'l Willie
an' me on de back seat, dey is plenty room," the orphan's guardian
indicated, greatly pleased at the prospect of the ride.
The sullen fire of eternal hatred burned in the eye which Ike turned
upon her. He fired his last shot. "Miss Virginy, you' Daddy ain' want
all des yere chillun in dis caah. He mighty biggoty about whoall ride
in it. Ah 'spects dey is gwine dirty it up sumpin fierce."
"Who yo'all call dirty?" demanded the woman; but Virginia made peace
by an emphatic "Hush," as the colored orphans were packed into the back
of the machine. With their attendant they filled the entire space.
The car moved away as soon as Virginia had taken her seat by the
irritated Ike. They left the town and sped along country roads. The
little negroes, awed by their new surroundings, became noisy with
familiarity and expressed their joy by screaming.
The young hostess of this strange party was at first uncomfortable and
embarrassed at the clamor of her small guests, but as she awakened to the
enjoyment she was giving the orphans she forgot herself in their pleasure.
It was a beautiful ride along the river shore, through the woods, and
then back between great fields of growing grain the surfaces of which
were broken into moving waves of green at the touch of the summer breeze.
They reentered the town a few minutes before noon and were almost back
to the turn towards the Orphans' Home, when far down the street they
caught the glitter of brass and the glow of red. "Er ban', er ban',"
screamed the little negroes.
The enticing strains of melody called to Ike across the intervening
blocks. There was a look of deep guile in his face, which became regret,
as he suggested to Virginia, "Des po' orphants ain' no chans to heah
fine ban' music. Ah might circle aroun' dat minst'el ban' an' let
de chillun lis'en fo' er spell."
As Virginia nodded assent, the car shot away, straight down the street.
In a few moments they had overtaken the marching musicians, the reality
of the poster which had charmed Ike. From them burst melody which coursed
through his veins. As he drifted away on a sea of syncopated bliss,
the car, subconsciously driven, closed upon the marching minstrels.
In the midst of a delegation of youth, honoring the snare and bass
drummers, it rolled. Bearing Virginia and her guests behind the pageant
and as an apparent part thereof, it proceeded towards the center of
the city.
The negro children were clamorous with delight at the wonderful
concentration of humanity, noise, and excitement. Their screams vied
with the band and their guardian on the rear seat assumed a careless
dignity.
Virginia's mind was occupied with the infants. To her, the onlookers,
more numerous as they neared the business part of town, were the
background of a picture. She was utterly unconscious that the load of
pickaninnies formed a most appropriate part of the spectacle.
Laughter pealed from the increasing crowds at the nonsensical behavior of
the orphans. In the center of town, prominent business men were away
from their offices for luncheon. They gazed indifferently at the marching
band, but as the machine approached, they recognized its monogram,
and, attracting the attention of companions, they burst into shouts of
laughter. Here was the car of wealthy Obadiah Dale, packed with negro
children, chaperoned by his daughter, taking part in a minstrel parade.
Suddenly upon the sidewalk near the curb, Virginia espied her father.
Regardless of her surroundings, the girl endeavored to attract his
attention by waving her hand. The pickaninnies joined with shouts,
considering it a pleasant game.
Plunged in thought and heedless of the band, the increased clamor aroused
Obadiah. Incredulity and amazement, at the sight of his daughter and
her company, held him. An acquaintance approached, spoke and laughed.
Anger flushed the mill owner as he marked the staring eyes fixed in
unveiled amusement on himself and his daughter.
"Daddy is over there,--there." She indicated the place to Ike, delight
in her discovery accenting her cry.
The chauffeur, thus rudely torn from his musical reverie, solaced his
disturbed harmoniousness, by smiting the ears of the crowd and wrecking
the sweet tones of the band, by a discordant honk. Thus soothed, he
attempted to turn towards the sidewalk, but the congested traffic blocked
him and he had to delay a few moments before he could swing the car over
to the curb.
Obadiah came up. He glared at the assembled orphans with manifest
disapproval and gave gruff tongue to his astonishment. "What does
this mean? I don't understand it," he snarled at Virginia.
In the depths of her big blue eyes lay tenderness as she anxiously
searched his cold grey ones for some sign of sympathetic appreciation.
"Daddy, dear"--there was a note of pride in her manner--"these are
orphans from the Lincoln Home. I have had them out riding all morning."
The pickaninnies acknowledged the introduction with screams.
This attention added fuel to Obadiah's irritation, "How are you going
to get rid of this bunch?" he asked loudly, giving no heed to the
listening ears of guests. "I want to go home and get my lunch."
The girl wrinkled her nose in thoughtful consideration of the social
dilemma she faced. The truly resourceful are never long at a loss. "You
get in here, Daddy," she urged, "you can hold me on your lap and we
will run over to the Orphans' Home. We can leave the children there and
go straight home."
"The idea!" snapped Obadiah, "I won't be made more ridiculous than I
have been, today. You must learn to give thought to others, Virginia."
Instantly, her happiness faded before his words. "I am so sorry. I
forgot how time was passing and I didn't mean to get in this big crowd.
How will you get home? What can I do for you, Daddy?"
Once more he realized that amused faces watched him as he interviewed
his daughter, a lily in a bed of black tulips. "Get out of this crowd.
Everybody is laughing at me. I'll get home some way," he declared
peevishly. "You get rid of that outfit as soon as you can," he called,
as he moved away, apparently in a hurry to escape the orphans' company.
"I'll see you at home."
CHAPTER III
UNGIVEN ADVICE
Obadiah Dale's office was in a modern building. He considered it the
finest in South Ridgefield, but then--Obadiah owned it. The proximity
of an army of employees disturbed him. So he had gathered his principal
assistants about him, away from the mill, in this more peaceful
environment.
Obadiah's personal suite contained three rooms. His private lair was
in the corner. Its windows overlooked metal cornices, tin roofs and
smoke stacks. The view should have afforded inspiration to sheet metal
workers, and professional atmosphere was available at all times to such
chimney sweeps as called.
The personal staff consisted of Obadiah's stenographer, Mr. Percy
Jones, who referred to himself as the "Private Secretary" and was
habitually addressed in discourteous terms by his employer, and a
bookkeeper identified by the name Kelly.
Across the hall was the sanctum of Hezekiah Wilkins, general attorney
for the Dale interests. The other executive officers of the organization
occupied the rest of the floor.
Certain preparatory sounds evidencing to the discriminating ear of youth
the probability of a band bursting into melody had reached Mr. Jones.
Rising hurriedly from his desk in the center of the middle room of
Obadiah's suite, he had gone to a window, and peering down, discovered
that the Jubilee Minstrels were about to favor South Ridgefield with a
parade.
Mr. Jones watched the preparations with interest. He was a dapper little
fellow with thin, dark hair, who sported a very small mustache with a
very great deal of pride. As much of a dandy as his small salary would
permit, he had indefinite social aspirations, and rather considered
himself a man of much natural culture and refinement.
His curiosity satisfied, he turned to a door, opposite to the one
which insured privacy to Obadiah, and entered the domain of Kelly.
The bookkeeper was perched upon a high stool before an equally elevated
desk burdened with the mill owner's ledgers. He was red headed, big
and raw boned, clearly designed by nature for the heaviest of manual
labor but by a joke of fate set to wielding a pen.
"Hi, Kelly,--minstrels," thus Mr. Jones advertised the forthcoming
pageant as he lighted a cigarette.
The upper part of Kelly's person was brilliantly illuminated by the
reflected light of a globe hanging an inch above his head. "Where?"
he asked, blinking about from his area of high illumination into the
shadows of the room as though looking for callers.
"In the street, you chump. They are going to parade. As soon as the old
man goes, we'll hustle out and look 'em over."
A movement in the corner room sent Mr. Jones scurrying to his desk. From
the street sounded the staccato taps of a snare drum, rhythmically
punctuated by the boom of the bass, passing up the street. Obadiah
emerged from his room as one marching to martial music. He broke step
like a rooky to tell his stenographer, "I'm going to lunch."
Leaping to his feet, Mr. Jones bowed profoundly as his employer departed,
his manner filled with the awe and respect due a man of such wealth and
position. He listened intently until the elevator descended, then he
shouted, "Get a move on you, in there. He's gone."
The bookkeeper appeared, his hat on the back of his head and struggling
into his coat.
"Hurry, we can get the elevator on its next trip," urged the
stenographer.
"What's the rush--we don't want to run into the old man," the
bookkeeper demurred.
"We've got a right to eat, ain't we? What's the lunch hour for?"
"Say, who's talking about not eating? I don't want the old man's face
as an appetizer," protested Kelly.
"Gee, he has got you bluffed. You are scared of him."
The bookkeeper shrugged his big shoulders and laughed. "Not on your life
am I afraid of that old spider, but I don't like him. That's all."
"The old man is a good enough scout when you know how to handle him,"
boasted Mr. Jones. "Tell him where to get off once in awhile and he'll
eat out of your hand."
"Say," chuckled Kelly. "The next time you decide to call him down,
put me wise. I don't want to miss it."
"Quit your kidding and come on. You think that I am shooting hot air.
I'll show you some day."
Their hasty luncheon was completed when the strains of music heralding
the return of the minstrel show hurried them forth to the curb to procure
suitable places to watch the parade.
"Kelly, look at the pickaninnies in the automobile following the band,"
exclaimed Mr. Jones, greatly interested. "That's something new. I never
saw it before." Thus he confirmed originality from the wealth of his
own knowledge.
"What's the white girl doing there?" Kelly sought information at the
fountain of wisdom.
The sagacious Mr. Jones was puzzled, but for an instant only. He
elucidated. "They have a white manager and that's his wife who won't
black up."
The explanation struck Kelly as reasonable and for the moment it
sufficed, as he gave his attention to the passing machine. "That's a
peach of a car," he proclaimed, and in further commendation, "Gosh,
it's as fine as the old man's!"
Now it was so close that Mr. Jones was enabled to place an expert's
eyes upon it. "Why," gasped that specialist, astounded by the
revelations of his own keen optic, "blamed if it ain't the old
man's car and," he stammered in his excitement, "I--I--It's the
old man's daughter--Virginia--in that minstrel parade."
In silent wonder the young men watched the passing marvel and, turning,
followed it as if expecting further events of an extremely sensational
nature.
"By Jove, there's the old man." The eagle eye of Mr. Jones had
picked his employer unerringly from amidst the multitude. "He sees the
car," the stenographer continued, as one announcing races, on distant
tracks, to interested spectators. "Wilkins is kidding him. He's getting
sore. We'd better beat it." Regardless of previous fearlessness, Mr.
Jones guided his companion into the entrance of a building from which
vantage point they watched the meeting of Obadiah and his daughter.
"By crackie, he's hot. Everybody is laughing at him." To prove the
truth of his own assertion, Mr. Jones threw back his head and guffawed
cruelly at the embarrassment of his employer.
One o'clock found the two clerks at their desks. Obadiah was a punctual
man. Always on time himself, he demanded it of his employees. Today,
however, minutes flew by with no sign of the manufacturer's return.
At one thirty, Mr. Jones entered Kelly's room to confer in regard to
this unwonted tardiness. Resting his elbows upon the bookkeeper's desk
he projected his head within the area of light in which his colleague
labored and submitted a sporting proposition. "I'll bet my hat that
the old man is raising the deuce somewhere."
Kelly inspected the illuminated face of the stenographer with interest,
as if the brilliant rays exposed flaws which he had not previously
noted. Disregarding the wager, he replied with emphasis, "You said a
mouthful."
Mr. Jones displayed marked uneasiness. "I'm surprised that he is not
back. He had important matters to attend to." The stenographer waxed
mysterious. "Only this morning he called me in. 'Mr. Jones,' sez he,
'I must have your invaluable assistance, today, on a matter of great
importance. I couldn't get along without your help. Please, don't step
out without warning me.'"
Apparently Kelly regarded the stenographer's secret revelations lightly.
"You told him that you didn't have the time?" he suggested with a grin.
Mr. Jones attempted to frown down unseemly levity regarding serious
matters.
Kelly burst into laughter. "Gee, if I wasn't here to keep you off the
old man, he sure would suffer."
Mr. Jones changed the subject, before such frivolity. "He ought to fire
that feller Ike. I'll bet he's to blame for the whole thing. The idea
of getting a young lady mixed up in a mess like that. He ought to be
fired." Mr. Jones' soul revolted at the notoriety which had befallen
his employer's daughter. He became thoughtful and then confidential.
"That girl is a pippin, Kelly. A regular pippin."
"You've said it." The bookkeeper's emphasis spoke volumes.
"Did you ever think about her?"
"Sure," admitted Kelly with candor, "lots of times."
"That girl lives a lonesome life in that big house with only the colored
servants and her father," alleged the knowing Mr. Jones. "What fun
does she ever have? The old man thinks that she is only a baby. If
she has a nurse and is taken out every day for an airing, he imagines
nothing else is necessary."
"You are talking," quoth Kelly.
"If the old man had any brains--" Mr. Jones noted a correction--"I
mean, if he was a cultured and refined man, if he was alive--" Mr.
Jones's manner expressed grave doubt of Obadiah's vitality--"He would
understand that young people must enjoy themselves once in awhile."
Poignant memories of the mill owner's refusal to grant certain hours
off for social purposes embittered the stenographer at this point in
his discourse. He paused. "If he had any brains, instead of hanging
around and trying to grab every cent that isn't locked in a burglar
proof safe, the old duffer would open up his swell house and spend some
coin. He's got plenty of money. It sticks to him as if his hands were
magnets and his fingers suction cups."
"I say so," agreed Kelly, with a vigorous nod.
For a moment Mr. Jones departed to assure himself that Obadiah did not
surreptitiously draw nigh. Thus reassured, he returned and vigorously
pursued his scathing arraignment of the absent one. "If he had red
blood in his veins he'd have a heart where that girl is concerned. Why
doesn't he ever give a dance for her? If he wasn't an old tight wad
he'd give several a week, have a swell dinner every night and a theater
party each time a decent show comes to town. He'd do that thing if he
wasn't a short sport. He ought to get a lively bunch of young people
to make his place their social headquarters and tear things loose."
"That's me." Thus did the laconic Kelly record his position.
Mr. Jones went on, "He should give his daughter the opportunity to
enjoy the better things of life." The stenographer drifted over to a
window and fell to musing. He gave thought to volumes of lighter
literature which had led him to believe that, in well conducted
families of wealth and position, private secretaries often assumed
the responsibilities of social secretaries or major domos. Turning
again to the bookkeeper, he resumed, "It takes certain peculiar
qualifications to handle that sort of thing. Everybody knows that the old
man couldn't do it. He ought to come out like a man and admit that he
has no conception of that bigger social life which plays such an
important part in the world today. Then--" Mr. Jones spoke with great
meaning--"there are those who understand such matters and could relieve
him of all responsibilities except--" Mr. Jones snapped his fingers
as though it was a bagatelle--"signing the checks."
CHAPTER IV
THOSE DARKIES AGAIN
After Obadiah, highly indignant at the presence of the black orphans,
had departed, his car moved slowly up the street. It stopped at the
corner for the policeman's signal. At the edge of the sidewalk stood a
newsboy eating an ice cream cone with great enjoyment. The shouts of
the pickaninnies were stilled at the pleasing spectacle of a fellow
man partaking of food. Every eye watched the disappearing cone as if
fascinated by some novel mechanical process.
The unusual silence aroused Virginia from uneasy thoughts of her father.
Following the eyes of her guests she caught the common target as the
last bite disappeared, and noted that the lips of the black company moved
sympathetically coincident with its departure.
"These children will be late for lunch?" worried the young hostess,
awakening to the requirements of the hour.
"Yas'm," the woman confessed with indifference. "It ain' no
mattah." From outward appearances the infants took issue upon the
question, deeming it one of grave concern. "Dey eats at noon but ah
fix 'em up er snack w'en we git back." The orphans registered relief.
"How would they like an ice cream cone?" suggested Virginia.
The infants awaited the verdict in breathless anticipation.
"Ah guesses dey lak it mighty well." The woman looked about her at the
upturned mouths even as in a nest of fledgeling blackbirds. The financial
extravagance daunted her. "Yo'all mought git one fo' each two."
Sore disappointment depressed the fledgelings.
Virginia sensed the prevalent dejection. "No," she decided, "each
child shall have one. Go on to Vivian's, Ike."
Now, Mr. Vivian maintained an establishment for the distribution of those
mild refreshments appealing to youth. His fastidious soul endeavored
to foster the delicate things of life. He dealt in sugars and syrups
in preference to lard or kerosene. This spirit prevailed in his public
parlors. Golden rays reflected in dazzling brilliancy in many mirrors
from gilded grills. It was meet that in such a temple only the elect
should partake of ambrosia. This thought exuded from every pore of Mr.
Vivian. At times he spoke of it.
The world accepts a man at his own value. So, South Ridgefield appraised
Mr. Vivian's resort at his own valuation; but by no means does this
mean that his clientele was limited. Far from it. The youth of South
Ridgefield were not modest in their self-esteem. In spite of individual
embarrassment, when first brought under the influence of the Vivian
presence and decorations, they gathered daily in great numbers in the
Vivian parlors, that the world might bear witness, through their
presence, to their elevated social status.
Indeed, certain hardy and desperate spirits did, by continued presence
and notable consumption of wares, become so bold that they dared to
address the proprietor as "Bill," and risked mild pleasantries as
that the nectar was "rotten dope," or that, through error, a "dash
er onion or sumpin'" had been introduced into their sacchariferous
cup. Such familiarity was for the few. Did not eye witnesses support
tradition in evidence of the casting forth of the unworthy from the
Vivian portals?
Had not reputable bibbers testified that certain dirty faced urchins,
essaying early adventures in trade and tendering but five coppers instead
of the eight, well known to be the post war value of the cone, been
driven into the street with loud objurgation?
Likewise, there was the memorable episode of the drunken tramp. Stumbling
into this resort of innocent youth under the belief that it was a
saloon, he was summarily ejected by the police. For a time, a splintered
mirror gave silent testimony to this banishment. It evidenced the casting
of a root beer mug at the white coated soda dispenser by the vulgar
varlet, obsessed by the delusion that he was enjoying the more thrilling
sport of heaving a beer stein at a bartender.
But by far the greater number of refusals of service, with its corollary
of altercation and throwings out, had to do with negroes.
"I ain't serving 'em in my place," Mr. Vivian had proclaimed, with a
frank disregard of at least the spirit of the fifteenth amendment.
The sweets dispensed by Mr. Vivian drew the black people as molasses
does the fly, and South Ridgefield had a large percentage of negro
residents. For a time hardly a day passed without noisy wrangles.
Comfortably seated in full view and hearing of such disputes, the
elect were greatly edified thereby. Of late, such disturbances had
decreased, and, as they had ended always in favor of the confectioner,
he felt assured that he had settled the race issue in his own place at
least.
Mr. Vivian waited today behind his marble topped counter and supervised
his numerous assistants. Through the front windows he watched the
multitude which had assembled to view the minstrel parade disperse. He
observed an influx of gilded youth over his threshold. One listening
to explanations would have gathered that the unusual number present was
not due to interest in such low concerns as minstrel bands. Through
untoward events the pageant had obtruded itself, as it were, into
blase vision.
Mr. Vivian's eyes, as has been suggested, rested upon the street.
Into his optical angle rolled the Dale car. It was well known to the
confectioner. Often it paused for long periods before his place while
Virginia refreshed herself within. It was his delight, at these times,
to greet the maiden with profound respect, as his heart swelled with
pride. The car of Obadiah Dale, the wealthiest, and in consequence, in
Mr. Vivian's judgment, the peak of the town's social strata, awaited
without. Within the house of Vivian, the heiress partook of Vivian
products. What could be more appropriate?
The spectacle of the big machine given up to the conveyance of this small
maiden had always pleased Mr. Vivian. There was a cavalier disregard of
the cost of gasoline, oil, and tires which appealed to him. Today, the
large passenger list astonished him, and, even as the number impressed
him, their aspect amazed him.
"Negroes," he gasped, "coming _here_!" There are moments in every
life which have far-reaching consequences. The confectioner faced one.
The car stopped at the Vivian door. The glad shouts of infants penetrated
the halls set apart for the fashionable. They offended the ears of the
elect.
"There is Virginia Dale and those colored kids with whom she was making
a spectacle of herself in the minstrel parade," sneered an excited girl.
"If she brings them in here, I'll leave and never come back."
"Oh, don't worry," a man of the world, of sixteen, calmed her. "Old
Viv won't stand for any foolishness. You watch him."
"Virginia Dale has lived so long in that big house with only colored
people that she likes them for friends," declared another girl
contemptuously. "Too good to associate with any of the young people of
this town, she parades around like that. I think it is disgusting
myself and I would tell her so, for very little."
These and similar remarks filled the ears of the perplexed proprietor.
He decided that whatever was done in this instance had better be done,
contrary to his usual practice, beyond the hearing of the elect.
He rushed out to the waiting car. A smile was upon his face but it was
not his usual one of hearty welcome. It spoke of hidden pain and anxiety.
"How do you do, Mr. Vivian," Virginia courteously greeted the dispenser
of toothsome delicacies. "I want you to meet these little people from
the Lincoln Home."
He cast a glance into the nest of the blackbirds. It lacked that interest
with which new friends should be greeted. He felt the curious glances
of the chosen, impinging against his back.
"They are hungry, Mr. Vivian. We have had a long ride and the children
missed their lunch watching the parade. Each of us wants the nicest ice
cream cone you can make. Seventeen, please."
"Cones!" Light dawned in Mr. Vivian's darkness.
"Bring them out, please?" Virginia begged.
"Out?" The clouds which had veiled the true Mr. Vivian rolled aside.
Came sunshine and gladsome welcome.
In a moment the confectioner was behind his counter urging his assistants
to diligence. In joyous relief, he shouted, "Make 'em big, boys. Make
'em big!"
Then, disregarding the feelings of the staring elect, Mr. Vivian hastened
forth, bearing a box of cones. In a moment, with his kindest smile,
encouraged by Virginia, he delivered with his own hand, to each infant,
one of his products.
"The poor things. I don't suppose orphans get ice cream cones very
often, do they?" Virginia asked the woman.
"Some ain' nevah had none afo', Ah bets. Has you, chillun? Who had
one?" Six worldly wise infants voted in the affirmative.
Mr. Vivian was stirred deeply by this information. That human beings were
permitted to arrive at such an age without experience of cones struck
him as an economic mistake. "It's a shame," he cried.
"They eat them as though they were used to them," laughed Virginia.
"Yes," he agreed, as he watched the mouths of the blackbirds wag in
solemn unison. Another thought struck him. "You have had these orphans
out for a ride all morning, Miss Dale?"
She nodded. "We've had a grand time, too. Haven't we, children?"
Mouths were too full for utterance but there was a unanimous bobbing of
heads.
When Virginia opened her purse to pay for the cones, Mr. Vivian, after
inspecting the tendered currency for a moment, submitted a proposal.
"Miss Dale, would you object if I presented the cones to the children?
I would be glad to do it."
There was a look of understanding in Virginia's eyes as she answered
him, "I know how you feel about it. I can't let you do it today,
though, Mr. Vivian. You see, it is my treat."
Motionless as a statue, Mr. Vivian stood before the door of his
establishment and watched the machine depart. As it disappeared a
look of great approval rested upon his countenance. "There goes a darn
fine girl," he muttered. He threw back his fat shoulders and worked
them as though a great load had been recently removed from them.
"Thank heaven," he cried, "she didn't take it into her head to
unload that outfit in my place." He scratched his head. "What
would I have done?"
CHAPTER V
ACCIDENTS WILL HAPPEN
It was past one o'clock when Virginia left the colored children at the
Orphans' Home. The purchase of the cones had detained them much longer
than she had anticipated. Now, rid of her guests, she remembered her
meeting with her father. Appreciating with dismay how the minutes had
flown, she considered it advisable to return home as soon as practicable
that rough water might be lubricated.
"Hurry, Ike," she told the chauffeur.
Now, Ike needed little encouragement in this matter. It delighted him
exceedingly to find excuse to unloose the surplus power of the fast
machine. Tantalizing qualms which only Serena's cooking could quiet
likewise beset him. It was his custom to lunch early and abundantly.
Ike hurried. In a moment the car was rushing along one of South
Ridgefield's residential streets at a high rate of speed. Virginia's
thoughts rehearsed the events of the morning. Those of the chauffeur
anticipated his delayed repast.
They approached a corner. The hoarse honk of a horn sounded from the
intersecting street. At the crossing came an instantaneous perception
of a man approaching at high speed upon a motorcycle and trying to
dodge. The sickening sensation of impending peril held the girl as the
emergency brake squealed. A heavy shock at the back of the automobile
seemed to lift it. Virginia screamed. The motorcycle rider half dove,
half tumbled out from the back of the big car and crumpled an inert and
senseless heap in the street.
The Dale car stopped almost at the instant of the shock. Seeming to
fall from his seat, Ike ran back and stared for a second at the upset
motorcycle and then hurried to the recumbent figure.
A bystander rushed out and joined the chauffeur, crying, "Is he dead?"
Ike, filled with personal woes, took no heed of the inquiry. "Run
squa'e into me. Smack bang. Done knock er big dent in ma caah," he
protested.
Luckily the bystander was a man of action rather than words. He gave
attention to the stricken one. "Get the doctor, over there," he
commanded sharply, pointing to a white house nearby.
Ike disappeared on the run.
For seconds which seemed hours, Virginia, held by fright, could not move.
Her eyes, wide with horror, stared back at the motionless motorcyclist.
His flattened figure resembled a bundle of old clothes dropped carelessly
in the roadway. Certain that the man was dead, the terrible thought came
to the girl that she was responsible for it. She could hear herself
saying, "Hurry, Ike." It made her frantic, she could not sit still
and yet she wondered if she had the strength to move. In a moment, she
found herself standing. Hardly knowing what she did, she climbed from
the car and moved slowly towards the figure lying in the dust. She
watched it fearfully, as if it might suddenly leap at her. Now she
saw the face. How dreadfully white it was. Surely he was dead. The pity
of this great fellow lying helpless in the street moved her strangely.
The pathos of his weakness wrung her heart.
The bystander removed his coat intending to make a pillow of it. Guessing
his purpose, Virginia hastened to the car and brought back a cushion.
"Thank you, that will be better," he told her. Taking the cushion, he
held it irresolutely as though planning how best to use it.
"May I help?" To Virginia it seemed that the words came of their own
accord. She doubted if she had the strength to do anything.
"If you would, please? When I lift his head, will you push the cushion
under?"
The girl dropped upon her knees in the dust of the roadway. It brought
her face very near to that of the unconscious man. She noticed that
he was young, not much older than herself. When the cushion was placed
it lifted his head into an awkward position. Readjusting the cushion,
Virginia pushed it too far. The motorcyclist's head slid over and rested
against her knee. For an instant she hesitated and then, making a pillow
of her lap, she very gently lifted his head into it.
"That's better. That's the stuff," approved the bystander. Noticing
her pallor, he added, "If you can do it."
"I--I--I will be all right," she hesitatingly reassured him. Yet, at
the moment, she was not at all sure of herself. Was she not holding the
head of a dead youth in her lap? It had shifted and a rivulet of blood
oozed from a small wound in the forehead, formerly hidden. A deathly
sickness swept the girl. But even as it seized her came a determination
to fight her feelings and conquer them. She would not faint.
The motorcyclist groaned. Virginia almost dropped his head in alarm. He
wasn't dead, but certainly that melancholy sound marked the passing of
his soul. Other groans followed of such grievous quality that she was
sure each one was his last.
"He's coming around, I believe," declared the bystander.
The words reawakened hope in Virginia's breast. "Isn't he dead?" she
murmured gently.
"No." The voice came from her lap.
Her startled blue eyes dropped. Two wide open black eyes looked up into
them wonderingly for an instant and the lids closed.
"Lord," moaned the stricken one in unmistakable language.
"He's praying," thought Virginia and solemnly bowed her head.
Ike returned, followed soon by a doctor.
"He's regained consciousness," the bystander told the medical man.
The physician knelt by the injured youth. He listened to his heart and
then started to lift an eyelid when both lids opened so wide that
Virginia was enabled to confirm her previous impression that the
motorcyclist's eyes were black. The doctor felt the man's body and
the groans redoubled as he touched one of the legs. The medical man
straightened up. "His head seems to be all right. There is a fracture of
the right leg and probably a rib or two broken. He is lucky to get off
so easy. He will be a mass of bruises, too, I suppose," he announced.
He glanced curiously at the waiting car and then at Virginia and went
on, "You are Obadiah Dale's daughter, are you not?"
As she nodded her assent, he asked, "How did the accident happen?"
"I was to blame," confessed Virginia, her eyes filling with tears.
"You weren't driving the car?" he argued sympathetically and when she
admitted it, "I don't see how you can be in fault."
"I was though, doctor."
He gave her an enveloping professional glance. The pale face and the
flood of tears fighting to break their dams did not escape him. "You are
suffering from the shock of the accident. You have been under a strain
and are nervous and unstrung."
Ike considered this an appropriate moment to make public outcry. "Dat
man was to blame. Ran smack into me. Lak to punch er hole in de tiah wid
'is haid. Ah gwine look fo' er punkcher," he assured the crowd which
had assembled.
This attempt to win public favor at the expense of a semi-unconscious
opponent filled the doctor with indignation. "You talk like a fool,"
he informed the chauffeur. "Without inquiring into the matter I conclude
that you are to blame. You help me carry this man under the trees and
make him comfortable until I can call an ambulance."
The snap judgment of the medical man apparently struck Ike as of
uncontrovertible accuracy, because he prepared in silence to assist
in caring for the injured until Virginia suggested,
"Why not take the man in our machine and get him to the hospital so much
quicker?"
"Very good," agreed the doctor. He eyed Ike sternly. "It's not a
question of speed now. There has been too much of that around here in my
opinion."
"Yas'r," the chauffeur made illogical response. "Ah ain' no speeder.
Ah is de carefles' drivah in dis yere town. Safety fust. Dat's ma
motta."
"Appearances are against you," the doctor snorted as he prepared a
rough splint to protect the leg of the motorcyclist during his removal.
They placed the youth in the Dale car, the doctor holding him in his
arms but using a middle seat to support the lower part of the body. Ike
pulled down the other seat and, at a sign from the physician, Virginia
took it.
As they slowly left the scene of the accident, the girl noticed that the
arm of the youth nearest to her swung helplessly at every jolt of the
car. Taking the hand in her own, she lifted it into her lap. When she
released it, there was a faint movement as if the fingers searched for
her own. Knowing him to be suffering, Virginia regrasped his hand and
it seemed to her that there came an answering pressure as of appreciation.
Yet woe descended anew upon the girl. The youth could not walk. He
could not talk. As she looked at his grotesquely postured body, she
became convinced that he was dying. The doctor's remarks were to cheer
her. No one could forecast the results of such an accident. The victim
might pass away in the car. He was so young to die, a mere boy. She had
killed him. Such thoughts were overwhelming her with fear when they
reached the hospital.
In the reception room of the institution, she awaited in dread the
outcome of a more thorough examination. As she looked about her, there
was nothing in the furnishing of the apartment to distinguish it from
thousands of others except the faint, sickening odor of ether which told
its own story.
A most attractive young woman in a nurse's uniform came across the hall
from a small office opposite. "Were you with the emergency case Dr.
Millard brought?" she asked.
Virginia thought the blonde curls, beneath the cap, very attractive.
Also she approved of the hazel eyes. They seemed sympathetic and the
overwrought girl longed for that. "I came with a motorcyclist who was
hurt. I don't know the doctor's name," she responded.
"If you can give me the information about the patient I will fill out
his card."
Virginia looked at the nurse in astonishment. "Why I don't know him. I
never met him until he ran into our car."
"A violent introduction," giggled the nurse, and then, more seriously,
"I am glad that it is not your husband."
"_Husband_," gasped Virginia, "on a _motorcycle_." Her face reddened
in an embarrassment the absurdity of which provoked her.
The nurse broke into a gale of soft laughter. "They come in automobiles,
on motorcycles and on foot. Evidently, you don't care for those on
motorcycles." She considered a moment. "I don't blame you. He would
have so many accidents that you would never know whether you were
wife or widow."
Virginia was uncomfortable. The strain of the most exciting day in her
life was telling. The mischievous eyes of the nurse were not helping
matters. "I think that I am quite young to be married," the girl
announced with a prim dignity meant to suppress this frivolous person.
That sophisticated young woman shook anew with amusement. "Oh, I don't
know. Have a look at our maternity ward."
The shot went wide of the mark with Virginia. "Oh," she exclaimed, with
rapturous interest, "I'd love to. That's where you keep the babies,
isn't it? I adore them."
"We were speaking of husbands, not babies, you know." The irrepressible
nurse persisted. "They are closely related but not the same thing. That
is, unless the wife, as many of them do, insists upon making a baby of
her husband."
Husbands! Babies! Where was this strange conversation leading? Again
an annoyed Virginia felt herself flush beneath the amused eyes of this
very complacent young person. With a rush, horrible thoughts of the
youth upstairs, surely suffering, possibly dying, through her fault,
obsessed her. Yet this nurse could look at one with hazel eyes dancing
with merriment. The mill owner's daughter whirled to a window, but,
regardless of her efforts, the tears came.
She heard the nurse move. In a moment a hand touched her shoulder and
a kind voice whispered, "Dearie, you are all broken up, aren't you?
It's a shock from the accident. I should have remembered. Let me get
you something?"
"No,--no," protested Virginia, dissolved in tears. "It's not medicine
I need. Oh, if I could only be sure that poor fellow isn't going to die.
I will never have a happy moment the rest of my life if he does." She
raised her tear drenched face. "I wanted to make people happy, not
to bring sorrow or trouble to any one. And now," she sobbed, "I've
killed a man."
"Don't be silly, girlie. You couldn't kill a flea, let alone a man.
Accidents will happen. We get hundreds of such cases every month."
"You don't get motorcyclists though. They are injured while riding at
fearful speed."
"Oh yes, we do. I don't mean to criticise your friend but most
motorcyclists are dreadfully reckless."
"He isn't my friend. I told you that I don't know him," grieved
Virginia.
"Why worry so, then? I heard the doctor say that it was not a serious
case myself."
"He was concealing something. Anyway, it is wrong of us to say unkind
things about the poor fellow when he has no friends to help him,"
Virginia concluded with a note of defiance.
"_Have_ we?" the nurse responded, "I think that I said,--you may
remember--that motorcyclists are reckless."
"But," sobbed the unhappy girl, "I thought it, too."
"He wouldn't care about it, anyway," argued the nurse soothingly.
"Cheer up, he'll soon be well. I never remember a motorcyclist dying in
this hospital. They are either killed outright," she explained in a
matter of fact tone, "or they soon recover. They have so many accidents
learning to ride, I suppose, that they get toughened. I don't mean
that they are tough fellows," she explained hastily, fearful that
Virginia might deem the remark unkind. "I mean that one must be young,
and strong, and hard, to run one of the things."
Virginia's tears had ceased to flow. "I should think that a
motorcyclist would have to be--quick--and graceful," she interrupted,
and then ended, "--and very brave," being, evidently much uplifted by
the nurse's remarks.
"And," continued the very observant attendant of the sick, "I
should think that they would have to be very strong and healthy,
perfectly nerveless, and," she smiled, "not a bit fastidious to ride a
motorcycle."
Virginia's face bore a look of mild reproof which melted away as she
joined in the hearty laugh of the nurse.
"I am going up stairs," resumed that energetic person cheerfully, "and
see your motorcyclist. In a minute, I will be back able to assure you
that he is not seriously injured."
As the girl waited, the quiet of the great building depressed her. To her
came the thought that it was a place of weariness, pain, suffering.
The hall before her was the highway along which men and women passed on
their way to those white bed battle-grounds beyond. Through hours, and
days of weariness and suffering the combat dragged its weary length or
moved in strenuous actions, short and sharp, towards victory, with the
joyous return of the pale and weakened warrior to loved ones, home,
friends, and all that makes life worth living, or else--
A door opened above stairs. Something very like a smothered laugh echoed
and the soft pad of rubber soles came on the steps.
"He's all right," the nurse reassured Virginia, as she reentered the
room. "He's perfectly conscious and the doctor says that he sees no
reason why he should not get along nicely." Her manner became very
professional as she went on, "Your motorcyclist has a fractured leg,
three fractured ribs, and many bruises." She shrugged her shoulders
deprecatingly, "That's nothing."
"Nothing! I think that it is dreadful." Virginia displayed indications
of renewed agitation.
The nurse made haste to comfort her, "Remember, I have seen him. That
young man may be brittle but he'll mend fast."
"He will suffer so," worried Virginia.
"No, not after his leg is set. Of course he will be in some pain for a
few days but that will soon pass." The nurse giggled. "Right now he
has a bad headache from striking either your car or the street with his
head. It must be made of extraordinarily strong material."
Virginia gave no heed to the concluding sentence. A look of alarm spread
over her face. "He struck the car an awful blow. It fairly lifted it.
Was that his head?" she gasped.
"Possibly," admitted the dancing eyed nurse. "His headache is severe.
But he'll be over that in the morning."
Another matter of anxiety recurred to the girl. "How's his fever?" she
troubled, her eyes big with pity.
"Fever!" Surprise claimed the nurse as its own. "Now what ever put
that into your head?"
"I held his hand when we brought him here. It was very hot."
"Oh, I see," admitted the nurse with a solemnity of tone which belied
her tell-tale orbs. "What a little helper you _were_. You held the
patient's hand, and, discovering it to be warm, you believed him dead."
"Wasn't it strange?" Virginia gravely pursued her own line of thought.
"It seemed to me that he wanted me to hold his hand, so I did."
"Kind girl," the nurse complimented her, and then, as from a wealth of
experience, explained, "I never knew a man who disliked to hold hands.
Certainly a motorcyclist would have no compunctions about it. Don't
worry about fever in this case."
"You are laughing at me again. You love to tease me," protested
Virginia.
"I can't help it after seeing that motorcyclist."
"Why should you laugh about him? Poor fellow, he suffers so."
"Yes, I suppose he does, but his appearance does not draw sympathy.
They've dressed him up in pink pajamas. He's a great big fellow and
his eyes--"
"Are black," announced Virginia with great assurance.
"Yes, but how on earth did you know it?"
"He looked up at me," Virginia confessed soberly.
"Looked up at you? Please tell me when? While you were holding his
hand?"
"No." The girl spoke with great gentleness, as if in a dream she
reenacted the scene she described. "His head was lying in my lap and
suddenly he opened his eyes and looked up at me for a moment--and closed
them."
The nurse choked with suppressed laughter. "I thought," she rippled,
"that it was a collision of vehicles, not of hearts."
"How very silly," thought Virginia, and regarding the nurse coldly,
she said aloud, "I'll go now. I am sorry to have been so much trouble
to you."
Unmoved by the change in the mood of the visitor, the nurse accompanied
her to the door. "You'll be coming back to see your patient?" she
suggested.
"I suppose I should," Virginia mused. Her coolness towards the nurse
melted. "It would be dreadfully embarrassing to visit a strange man."
"I can help you. I go back to ward duty tomorrow and will have charge
of the surgical cases. I'll know him by the time you call."
"That will be fine. I'll bring him something to eat." A further
courtesy occurred to Virginia. "Would you let him know, please, that I
waited to be sure that he was as comfortable as possible?"
"That has been done," the nurse told her. "When I was up stairs I
explained to him that you were waiting, in almost your very words."
The curiosity of her sex beset the mill owner's daughter. "Did he say
anything about it?" she questioned.
Great merriment, promptly subdued, shook the nurse. "I should hardly
call it 'anything.' Of course, I could not question him in his
condition. I caught two words. Perhaps I misunderstood them."
"What were they?"
"He said"--again the nurse was shaken by concealed
amusement--"something which sounded to me like"--she hesitated to
regain control of her feelings--"Some chicken."
"Poor fellow," sympathized compassionate Virginia. "He is hungry.
Serena fries chicken deliciously, and he shall have some of it." As
she hurried away, she wondered what it was that had amused the nurse so
much that she could not overcome a final outburst.
CHAPTER VI
IKE EXPLAINS
Obadiah Dale gave unusual thought to his daughter during a period
following the minstrel parade. This attention was due primarily to the
appearance of Virginia as a seeming part of the pageant. It was due
secondarily, and consequently in ever increasing force as the minutes
passed, to the girl's unexplained delay in returning home to lunch.
Immediately upon his arrival, Obadiah had attempted to elicit from Serena
all information in her possession concerning orphans and minstrels. His
approach to the subject was craftily obscured.
"I don't see the car. Virginia not home, yet?"
"Yas'r. She orter bin back er long time ergo." From Serena's
appearance one would have judged her deeply aggrieved.
"Where is she?"
"She tek er li'l ride. Ain't she bin at yo'all's office?"
Serena was conscious that her speed regulations, literally interpreted
and conscientiously obeyed by Ike, might be responsible for the delayed
return of the absent ones. She was aware, that regardless of the real
reason, Ike, constitutionally, would not be adverse to transferring
all blame to her. She deemed it advantageous, therefore, to submit
her defence before the arrival of the complainant and thus win the
sympathetic support of the court.
"Ah tole dat Ike to drive mo'e cafful. Ah ain' wantin' Miss Virginy
broke up 'count o' his foolishness."
"They were safe enough when I saw them down town. As far as I could make
out they had been following a minstrel band about," Obadiah informed her.
"Minst'el band!" Serena lifted up her voice loudly. "Dat's Ike. Wot
inte'est dat chil' got in er ole minst'el band. It sure is dat fool
Ike."
"They had a negro woman and a lot of negro children in the back of the
car."
"Black woman an' chillun," shouted the old negress. "Howcum dey in
dat caah? Ah axes you dat?" Serena's temper was rising. "Dat fool boy
Ike done fill up dat caah wid trash. Yas'r. Whar was dey?"
"Following that band down the middle of Main Street."
"On Main Street, wid all de high tone folks er lookin' at ma po' li'l
honey chil' er packed in wid er bunch o' trash er laughin' an' er
hollerin' at er minst'el band." Serena became almost inarticulate in
her anger.
Obadiah kicked angrily at the rug in front of him. Again he remembered
the smiles of the crowd. Gruffly dismissing the servant, he watched her
depart, every line of her body quivering with indignation and muttering
dire threats at Ike.
The manufacturer dropped into a chair and attempted to read a newspaper
but he could not keep his mind from the episode of the morning. It had
been an absurd affair. His sense of personal dignity rebelled at his
daughter being entangled in such a thing. The thought came that Virginia
was only a child who had become involved in an escapade of Ike's which
every one had already forgotten.
He settled himself more comfortably but the picture of the parade
would not depart from his thoughts. Obadiah could not stand ridicule
and those laughing faces danced before him. That child argument was
unsatisfactory, too. Virginia had appeared quite proud of the load
of colored children when he had talked to her. She didn't look the
child part, either. To the contrary she seemed quite mature--almost
a woman. With a start, he remembered his daughter's age. "Confound
it," he muttered, "she is a woman. She should behave as one. She must
learn to have some regard for my dignity and to uphold my position in
this town."
He arose, looked at his watch, and, striding out upon the porch, gazed
anxiously down the street. As he watched, there came a distant honk of
familiar note and in a few moments his car turned in through the gate.
"What made you so late?" roared Obadiah before the machine stopped.
Virginia leaped out as the car paused and running up the steps threw
her arms about her father. "Oh Daddy," she responded, "I have been
so frightened." Laying her head against his arm, she shuddered.
"What happened?" Obadiah's voice was cutting, sharp.
"We almost killed a man. We broke his legs and ribs and gave him a
terrible headache. We had to take him to the hospital where he is
suffering dreadfully."
"Dat man done knock er big dent in dis yere caah wid his haid,"
proclaimed Ike. "Ran slap bang into me."
At the sound of the chauffeur's well remembered voice, Serena, as a
privileged member of the household, returned to the porch. Approaching
Virginia who had drawn an arm of her father about herself, the old
negress patted the girl reassuringly upon the shoulder and pledged
revenge. "Nev' mine, honey chil', nev' mind, ah gwine 'tend to
dat fool, Ike, presen'ly." Hurrying to the end of the porch she
glared down at the chauffeur as if he were the root of all evil in that
vicinity. "Wot you mean er takin' er woman an' 'er fambly in dat
caah wid ma honey chil' an' er runnin' ovah er ban' an' er killin'
er minst'el man? 'Splain youse'f, boy."
Ike was puzzled to identify the victim of his alleged manslaughter under
the conditions named. "Wot minst'el man? Ah ain' kill no minst'el
man a tall."
"Who dat done dent yo'all's caah?" cried the accusing voice.
"How ah gwine tell if dat man wot bre'k hisse'f up on ma caah is er
minst'el man? Ah ain' ax 'im. Ah ain' kill no man."
"Who dat woman an' her fambly you 'vite into dat caah? Wot mar'ied
woman is yo'all makin' up to? Wot's de name o' dat frien', wid
chillun?"
Ike had to suffer much that morning. He writhed under this new
inquisition which displayed a tendency to besmirch his reputation. No
love light glowed in the porcupine's eyes but hatred, intense and
eternal, flashed from them, and he bristled as he made forceful
denial. "Dat female sco'pion ain' no frien' o' mine."
Before such dislike, who could suspect? Where dwelt such frankness? Who
could doubt? Yet, Serena, conjecturing that a more complete understanding
of the case might insure some interesting developments, excused him with
words of warning, "You ain' nevah kep' nothin' f'on me, no time."
After Obadiah had heard his daughter's story of the accident, his mind
reverted to the minstrel parade. "You seem to have had a very strenuous
morning, Virginia," he remarked. "When we met, you had quite a load of
passengers with you. Tell me about them." He wanted to know how those
orphans got into the car.
Virginia was in the midst of her description of the morning's events
when her father interrupted,
"Why should you take those negro children for a ride? What made you do
it?"
"Can't you understand, Daddy? Those poor little darkies were frightened
almost out of their wits by our car. They cried, and they looked so
forlorn. The walk is their big pleasure each week. We spoiled it in a
way, today, and I tried to make up for it." She was lost in thought
for a moment and then went on. "Think of it! Those children are shut up
within the walls of that institution every minute of the time except
for that weekly walk."
"What's the matter with that? Where else would you keep them? They
can't run loose upon the streets." Obadiah wished to bring his daughter
to a reasonable and sensible view of the situation.
"Of course, Daddy, the orphans can't be allowed to run wild. That would
never do. But that makes it no less hard for them to be shut up in that
yard year after year with only a walk now and then for a change." She
looked appealingly at him. "How would you like to be shut up in a yard
all of the time, Daddy?"
Obadiah almost shuddered. The thought of being confined in an inclosure
was repulsive to him. It savored of the penalties prescribed in certain
anti-trust laws of which he had an uncomfortable knowledge. He would
have gladly eliminated the question of restraint, but not being able to,
asked, "How can you help it?"
Virginia gleefully clinched her argument. "Take the orphans out oftener
and take them riding so that they can go farther than their little legs
can carry them. I did the last thing, Daddy, don't you see?"
Obadiah saw, and, admitting the strength of his daughter's argument to
himself, recognized that it had logical strength as a plea for a series
of rides. He dropped the matter promptly and in this was assisted by the
gong calling them to a belated luncheon.
Virginia, because of the excitement of the morning, had little appetite.
She watched her father for a time and then her eyes took on a deeper
blue as, without averting her gaze, she drifted away into one of those
mysterious musings of girlhood.
He gulped his food hastily as if he had a train to catch. "I should
be back," he fretted. "My time is worth money. You must learn to be
considerate of others, Virginia."
The shadow of unhappiness veiled the face of dreams as the girl started
at his words. "I am very thoughtless, I am afraid, Daddy," she
answered. "I shall try to be more careful." And then in a whisper so
low that he could not hear it, she continued, "It would make mother
unhappy to know that I was that way."
"You should overcome your faults, particularly your thoughtlessness in
regard to others," he grumbled, and immediately changed the subject.
"Do you know the name of the fellow who ran into you?"
"No, Daddy."
He considered a moment. "Don't you bother about it." He gave her a
smile and the traces of her unhappiness faded before it. "I will have
some one call up the hospital. I must take the matter up with Wilkins."
"Honey, chil', ain' yo'all gwine res' you'se'f dis afternoon?"
Serena demanded, as they arose from the table.
"In a minute, Serena, I want to ask Daddy something."
She hurried after him. There was almost a trace of embarrassment in her
voice, as she asked, "Daddy, may I go to the hospital tomorrow and visit
that man?"
"What?" Obadiah was surprised. "Why on earth should you want to do
that?"
"I think I should. I told Ike to hurry, as I explained to you. If I
hadn't done that the man would not have been hurt." She gave a woeful
little sigh. "I helped to take him to the hospital and so I feel
acquainted with him."
A shrewd, calculating look swept over Obadiah's face. "That's a most
informal introduction, I am thinking. However, it will do no harm to get
on friendly terms with that fellow. I suppose that it will mean a suit,
anyway, but I won't oppose your going."
Virginia's face lighted with happiness and pride. "Daddy dear, you
have the kindest and most thoughtful heart. You are always trying to do
something nice," she laughed, softly. "You've made a mistake this
time, and you will have to think of something else. The man in the
hospital doesn't need clothes. I noticed that his were not hurt in the
accident."
"_Clothes_," cried Obadiah, much perplexed by the tribute to himself
and the subsequent explanation. "Who said anything about clothes?"
Suddenly, understanding came to him. "I'll swear--" promised the
astounded manufacturer.
Virginia quickly kissed him squarely upon the mouth.
"No, you won't," she said, her eyes tender with love and pride, "you
are much too good and generous and noble to do that."
For an instant, Obadiah appeared about to contradict his daughter, but,
changing his mind, he hurried out to his waiting car and pressed the
button on the horn.
At the signal, Ike appeared, coming hurriedly from the kitchen. As he
advanced, he deposited in his mouth the remains of a slice of pie.
Because of the unfortunate events of the morning, the procurement of
this pastry partook of the nature of a diplomatic triumph. Ike had
but little pride in this. His mind was upon weightier matters. As he
approached his employer, he bolted the remnants in a manner conducive
neither to his present dignity nor future health.
Obadiah endeavored to fix the shifting glance of his chauffeur with a
piercing eye. "Ike," he demanded, roughly, "how did that accident
occur?"
"Yas'r, dat man come er speedin' down Secon' Street an' ran smack
bang into dis yere caah. He dent it wid his haid," the chauffeur
testified glibly.
"Show me the dent!"
Ike promptly indicated a slight depression in the body of the car above
a rear fender.
"You did that when you ran into a coal truck and smashed the fender."
Ike was greatly astonished but admitted erroneous conclusions. "Ah mek
er mistake. Dat man mus' er landed on de wheel den."
"Don't make any more mistakes about this accident," the manufacturer
rapped. "Virginia tells me that you were coming out Forest Avenue and
that this fellow was going down Second Street."
Ike considered this with care, that deception be eliminated. "Yas'r,
Miss Virginny ain' mek no mistake, neither."
Obadiah glared at his humble retainer. "He was on your right hand
then?" he suggested.
"Ah dis'remembers jes whar dat man cum f'om, Misto Dale. He cum so
fas' it plum slip ma mind." Ike scratched his head thoughtfully. "It
done gone f'om me."
"He was going down Second Street towards the Court House and you were
coming out home, weren't you?"
"Yas'r, dat's jes de way o' it."
"Then, he approached you on your right hand. He had the right of way."
"Misto Dale, dat man done took all de way."
"You know he had the right of way under the law," bawled Obadiah,
provoked by the stupidity of his servitor.
"Yas'r, dat's de law." A most flattering note of admiration for his
employer's legal acumen crept into Ike's voice. "Misto Dale, yo'all
sutinly knows de law."
"Never mind what I know," roared Obadiah, thrusting compliments rudely
aside. "If that fellow hit my car you must have been in his way."
"No, sar, Ah was er gwine to hit 'im, 'ceptin' he dodge. He done cum
so quick ah ain' seen 'im 'till he whar der. Yas'r."
Puzzled at what he had unearthed, Obadiah sought illumination along other
lines. "How fast was that fellow running, Ike, when he hit you?"
The chauffeur lifted his eyes heavenward as if seeking inspiration. A
crow winged its way slowly across the sky. He followed it critically as
if using its speed as a measure for the estimate sought. "'Bout seventy
seven mile er hour," he ventured.
Obadiah boiled. "Seventy seven miles an hour on Second Street is
absurd," he blurted. "It's too rough. A man would have to fly to do
it."
"Yas'r dat's hit. He was er flyin'. Jest er hittin' de high places."
Obadiah scorched his menial with a look which should have reduced him
to a cinder.
Ike shifted uneasily under the unkind gaze of his indignant employer as
he waited further interrogation.
"How fast were you running?" Obadiah's tone was as warm as his aspect.
Ike deemed it advisable at this point to make his statements general.
"Ah drives cafful. Safety furst, dat's ma motta."
"I have heard that nonsense of yours before. What I want to know,"
Obadiah bleated in a high falsetto, "is, how fast were you going?"
Again, Ike turned to the skies. Suddenly came a change. His doubtful
demeanor disappeared. He met the stern countenance of his employer
with a glad smile of confidence and assurance. To him, in the hour
of need, had been vouchsafed a solution of his problem. "Miss Sereny,"
he explained, with great satisfaction, "she done tell me not to drive
no fas'er den er hoss an' ker'idge kin go. Dat's jes how fas' ah
goes."
Obadiah leaped into his car and slammed the door. "Take me to my
office," he blazed.
Ike obeyed him, running, it may be noted, at a speed well above that
usually attained by the horses and carriages of Serena's fond
remembrance.
Obadiah entered his office yet much irritated by the recent examination
of his chauffeur. "Jones," he shouted peevishly.
"At your service, Sir," responded the ever courteous private secretary,
ceasing his social plannings for the House of Dale, hurriedly, and
leaving the bookkeeper sorely embarrassed in his labors, through the
loss of the voucher from which he was working snatched away by Mr.
Jones, and borne into the manufacturer's presence, as proof that his
absence was due to zealous watchfulness of his employer's interests,
rather than to personal motives.
"Tell Mr. Wilkins that I want to see him."
"Immediately, sir." Obadiah's voice demanded speed and Mr. Jones sped,
bearing the bookkeeper's work away with him.
In a moment the expeditious private secretary returned followed by
Hezekiah Wilkins who passed on into Obadiah's room and closed the door.
Obadiah was waiting behind a large desk in the center, and motioning to
his legal adviser to be seated, made known his business in these words.
"An embarrassing personal matter has occurred, Hezekiah, in which I
must ask your assistance." The manufacturer chose his words with care.
Diplomacy is necessary when asking corporation lawyers to attend to the
minor concerns of life. "It is so small a matter, I hesitate to ask
your advice."
Mr. Wilkins was short and fat. His head was bald and his face
intellectual. There was a glint of humor in his eyes which was very
noticeable when he removed his nose glasses for purposes of
gesticulation. His defective sight did not prevent him from casting a
keen glance at his employer, meanwhile tapping upon his front teeth
with the gold frame of his glasses. "Don't hesitate on my account,
Obadiah." There was a shadow of a smile on the attorney's face.
"I've done everything for you, but--" he intended to suggest as a
pleasantry--"bail you out of jail," but after a second's
consideration of his employer's grim countenance, he continued, "buy
you a marriage license," as being less likely to affront a sensitive
soul.
Now, Obadiah Dale had never given a moment's consideration to a second
marriage, and the thought that his attorney harbored inner suspicions
of matrimonial designs upon his part interfered with the thread of his
remarks. "What put that into your head?" he demanded, testily.
"Put what?" The fat face of the lawyer reflected great innocence.
"Marriage licenses," retorted Obadiah.
"Oh," chuckled the attorney, and quite frankly for one of his
profession, he confessed, "It just slipped out, I suppose."
The mill owner gave Hezekiah a severe glance as if to warn him of the
grave danger of slips of the tongue to one in his profession.
This attention was lost, because the lawyer seemed greatly interested in
the erection of a sign over the way.
Finding looks unavailing, Obadiah reverted to his business. "A fellow
on a motorcycle ran into my car this morning. He broke a leg and they
took him to the hospital where he is now, I believe."
"Who was to blame?" asked the attorney.
"I can't tell," Obadiah replied crossly, as he remembered Ike's
testimony. "I can't get a thing out of that fool chauffeur of mine.
His story is absurd."
"Were there witnesses?"
"One, I think, besides my daughter."
"What does she say?" Hezekiah tickled his chin with his glasses and
examined the picture moulding as if it were something unique in that line.
"I have not asked her, directly. I thought it inadvisable. I gather that
she believes herself to blame because she told the chauffeur to hurry
home."
"Ahem," said the lawyer, resuming his dental tattoo with great spirit.
"Who had the right of way?"
"The motorcycle was approaching from the right," admitted Obadiah
grudgingly.
Hezekiah arose to his feet and moved around until he stood opposite to
his employer. "Keep out of court, Obadiah," he warned him. "A jury
will soak you in this kind of case. How far can I go in a compromise?"
he concluded, perfunctorily.
"I won't pay a cent," roared Obadiah, flying into a rage. "They
can't bleed me."
Hezekiah understood the manufacturer's mood. He paused for a minute and
then continued very calmly. "How about a couple of hundred dollars and
hospital expenses?"
"No."
"The fellow's hospital expenses?" There was a persuasive note in the
lawyer's voice.
"No!" Obadiah's face was flushed and set in its obstinacy.
"The man may be poor. He may have dependents who will be deprived of
the actual necessities of life. It could easily be that suffering and
want would arise from this little case." There was a pleading note in
Hezekiah's voice and almost a look of entreaty upon his kindly face.
"I don't give a hang," snarled Obadiah. "That's their bad luck, not
mine."
Yet, the attorney waited, silently watching the angry manufacturer thrust
papers from side to side of his desk.
Finally he glanced up. His temper had worn itself out. "Fix it up for
twenty-five dollars," he snapped. "That's my limit."
Hezekiah shrugged his shoulders in frank disgust at the smallness of the
sum named, nodded his head in recognition of his instructions and left
the room.
CHAPTER VII
JOE PROVES INTERESTING
The morning was beautiful. During the hours of darkness a shower had
cleansed the great outdoor world with its gentle moisture. Now, in
all of its new laundered freshness, the earth welcomed the warm rays of
the rising sun, sweeping with millions of scintillating reflections
through the air, clear and pellucid in its purity. The rays sparkled
and glittered on the drops of moisture which clung to the grass blades
and to the leaves. They gave warm caresses to the bushes and to the
trees and from the upturned faces of the flowers, waving coyly and
coquettishly, they stole sly kisses, until the blossoms blushed red and
pink and hid their faces beneath the leaves for very shame.
Down from the hills danced a gentle breeze, and, catching the naughty
lovemakers, laughed merrily and rushed away to whisper the story in the
branches of the trees. The birds overheard it and they laughed, too, and
spread the news, the naughty gossips, in a cheery chorus of song.
Then the world awakened and heard the laughter of the wind and the merry
song of the birds and felt the caress of the sun and wise men threw
back their shoulders and took deep draughts of the morning air and were
happy, too.
At the hospital, a nurse in her garb of white was humming softly as she
moved about among the awakening patients, setting the ward in order. She
stopped by a bed to remove a glass from the enameled table.
A big, handsome fellow, arrayed in pink pajamas, opened a pair of black
eyes beneath a mop of disheveled black hair and smiled up at her.
"Good morning," she greeted him. "How are you this morning?"
"Good--ouch!" An attempt to move was the cause of the peculiar response.
She came to his assistance. "Isn't that better?"
"Yes, thank you. I forgot about yesterday's troubles while I slept.
How could I get so many sore spots when I only struck in one place?"
he asked.
The nurse laughed as she inspected his chart. "How's your head this
morning?"
"Sister--" he grinned good humoredly--"that dome of mine has
completely recovered. I am healing from the top down."
She raised a shade and a ray of sunshine flashed across the foot of his
bed. "Isn't that better? It's a beautiful day."
He rolled and twisted his eyes until he was able to get a glimpse of a
bit of blue sky through the window. His face registered great regret.
"What a day for a two or three hundred mile spin, sister," he mused.
Again she examined his chart. "Say, Mr. Joseph Tolliver Curtis," she
remonstrated sharply.
"Those who love me call me Joe," he interrupted in a gentle voice as
he watched with great interest and amusement the snap in her hazel eyes.
She disregarded the brazen hint and proceeded to reprimand. "It's time
for you to cut out this 'sister' business. I might stand for it once
in awhile but you have a chronic case of it. You took a spin yesterday
which is going to make us intimate acquaintances for some time."
"Oh death, where is thy sting?" he interjected.
Perfectly oblivious to his remark, she continued, "It will be better,
particularly for you, if our acquaintance is a pleasant one. You will
call me--Miss Knight--Mr. Curtis," she intimated with a grave dignity
which the wayward blonde curls beneath her cap did not loyally support.
"'Night, sable goddess, from ebon throne descends,'" he quoted with
dramatic emphasis. "Do you furnish breakfast as well as lectures on
behavior in this hospital?"
She retired with great hauteur between smiling masculine eyes to the end
of the ward. Suddenly, she whirled and waved her hand at the injured
one, and, as if addressing an old and intimate friend, called, "You can
have your breakfast in a minute, Joe."
In his apartment above the garage at the Dale home, Ike was awakened by
the shrill alarm of an electric bell rung from a button pressed by Serena
in the comfort of her own bed. Thus he arose betimes of necessity, rather
than from personal desire to salute the rising sun.
Breathing deeply, the spirit of the morning entered into the chauffeur's
veins as he watched a couple of fat robins enjoying a breakfast of
elastic worms pulled from the moist earth. Lifting his voice in muffled
song, he ran the big car out of the garage, and, opening its bonnet,
reclined on the radiator and lazily looked at the engine.
Like a high priestess veiled in clouds of incense while engaged in holy
mysteries, Serena moved about her kitchen in the midst of appetizing
odors, preparing coffee, frying ham and cooking waffles for the morning
refreshment of the Dales. Now, as if such dainties were insufficient, she
brought forth another skillet and put diverse parts of a fowl therein,
and with skilled, fork-armed hand shifted them about until they sissled
and hissed and fried.
The morning breeze faintly wafted pleasing odors to Ike. They assailed
his nostrils delightfully. He breathed yet a little deeper and sang
yet a little louder. Closing the bonnet, he climbed into a seat that
he might, in pleasant anticipation, rest from labor. Suddenly, there
came to him a more delicious scent. He sniffed in disbelief that fate
could be so kind, but his experienced olfactory nerves reassured him.
In such matters, they could not err.
"Chicken!" He sniffed and sought appropriate outlet for joy. With a
roar which shook the early peace of the neighborhood as a salute of
artillery, Ike raced the engine of the machine and in the midst of this
diabolical furore, he sang a paean of joy.
The uproar smote the calm of Serena's kitchen. She jerked with alarm,
but the wisdom of years asserted itself. Rushing out on the stoop she
fixed indignant eyes on the chauffeur. "You, Ike," she cried, "stop
dat noise."
He returned her words with a cheery smile of trust and confidence.
Deafened by his own row, he judged that she desired speech with him. The
engine slowed and the noise decreased until there could be distinguished
the words of a ballad of strenuous love,
"Ah kissed 'er in de mouf
An' ah hugged 'er in de souf."
"Ain' you know bettah an' to mek a noise dat a way, dis time in de
mo'ning?" the irritated cook inquired.
"Ah ain' mek no noise, Miss Sereny. Hit de _caah_," he made reply in
pleasant tones. It would be folly to irritate unduly the custodian of
the chicken lest the fowl be consumed before friendly relations could be
reestablished. His black face was bathed in good humor as he went on.
"Miss Sereny, ma hand an' ma foot done slip."
That smile disarmed the cook. It was his strongest weapon, but Ike
usually resorted to a sullen obstinacy which infuriated her, to his
undoing. She glared at him for a moment and then his smile and the
spirit of the morning claimed her. "You bettah watch you' step, den,"
she returned, and their voices blended in a boisterous gust of laughter.
Ike's salute to his favorite fowl awakened Virginia from her sleep
with a start. Sitting up in bed, she cast a frightened glance about
her pretty bedroom. For a moment she listened intently, drawn up in a
little white heap on her bed, her blue eyes misty with dreams, peeping
out from a frame of towsled hair. "It's Ike running the engine,"
she decided.
She gave a little yawn as she poked her feet into her slippers and
ran over to a window. From it she could look, between the tops of two
great elms, across the valley in which South Ridgefield lay to the
top of a small hill upon which, bathed in the morning sun, stood the
brick hospital building. Her eyes rested upon it, thoughtfully, and she
took a deep breath of morning air. She began to sing happily as she
turned to dress.
Obadiah was shaving in his bath room. He used an old fashioned razor,
the pride of his youth. His deep cut wrinkles made it a matter of
care--almost a ceremony. Ike's disturbance nearly resulted in the
amputation of a lip. Obadiah was peeved. Rushing to the window, he threw
it open. He heard Serena's words of remonstrance and determined to
dismiss Ike. He often did that.
Suddenly the morning breeze played caressingly about him. He pulled his
bath robe closer to him and slammed the window down. His face felt stiff
where the lather had dried upon it. "Darn the luck," growled Obadiah.
He washed his face, restropped his razor, reprepared his lather, and
finally completed his shave by nicking his neck on his Adam's apple.
"Dang it all," he howled. The world was ill using Obadiah and he
resented it. He dressed slowly and from his bedroom window moodily
viewed his beautiful grounds.
Into his view danced Virginia, swinging a wide brimmed hat by its
streamers and singing gaily as she made for a bed of sweet peas.
Obadiah watched her, but the harsh lines upon his face did not soften
nor the irascible look fade. He gave a grim nod when the girl discovered
him and shouted a merry greeting.
There was no one in the dining room when the manufacturer entered it that
morning. He seated himself and began to eat his melon.
The rich voice of Serena with all of its carrying power came in at the
window, "Yo' all bettah git in yere mighty fas'. You' Daddy done eat
up all de breakfus'."
Then sounded the answering words of the girl, ringing silvery and sweet,
"Ask Daddy to wait. I have some beautiful flowers for him."
Serena was suddenly beset with internal mutterings and grumblings
and broke into incoherent utterances. "Ah ain' got no time--no
time--flowers--tell him dat--No siree--Ah ain' no fool." A few moments
later she entered the dining room worrying aloud. "Dat chil' gwine be
fo'ced to eat a col' breakfus. Ah caint keep grub hot all day."
"She must learn to be on time at her meals," Obadiah scolded.
Serena gave him a look of stern disapprobation. "Dat gal miss 'er
breakfus er gittin' flowers fo' yo' all."
Light feet ran through the hall and Virginia skipped into the room, her
face flushed, her hair tossed and a bunch of sweet peas in either hand.
Unexpectedly, two soft arms were about Obadiah's neck. He found his face
buried in a mass of blossoms while girlish laughter in peals of delight
rang in his ears.
Virginia shifted her position to examine in mock solemnity the sober
face of her father blinking from the mass of delicate colors. She gave a
shout of amusement. "Daddy, you don't match very well." She shifted
the bouquets about his face. "There, that is much better," she decided.
"Don't you think so, Serena?"
Obadiah sneezed.
"God bless you," Virginia whispered.
"Take those things out of my nose," protested Obadiah.
"You look so beautiful," the girl giggled. "Doesn't he, Serena?"
The colored woman watched the proceedings with great gravity. "Leave
you' Daddy 'lone, chil'," she urged. "De breakfus gwine be ruined."
Obadiah released himself from his daughter's embrace and the blossoms
dropped in a glowing mass upon the table. "Eat your breakfast and stop
this foolishness," he told her.
"I'll eat anything you'll give me, Daddy dear. I am as hungry as a
bear." She glanced at the clock. "It's late. I must hurry to get over
to the hospital."
"What for?" he asked in apparent surprise.
"To see the man who was hurt yesterday. I spoke to you about it."
"Yes, but upon reflection I think it inadvisable. You might catch some
disease in a place like that. You must think of yourself."
A look of disappointment came into her face. She ate in silence, the
gayety of the morning swept away by his refusal.
When breakfast was over, she followed him into the living room where he
sank into a chair and devoted himself to his paper. Thinking deeply,
she paused by the center table. Very quietly, she opened a drawer and
took from it the book which had belonged to her mother. She caressed
the little volume gently for a moment, a great tenderness in her eyes.
Then she replaced it. Determination had driven disappointment from her
face and there was a faint reflection of his obstinacy in her jaw when
she went over and confronted her father. "Daddy," she commenced,
very softly. "All your life you have been helping people--thinking
of others. In your thoughtfulness for my health you wish to keep me away
from the hospital. But, don't you see, I was to blame for that accident.
It is my duty to help that man, if I can. I must go."
Obadiah glanced over his paper at Virginia as she began to speak.
Realizing that her words savored of rank rebellion, he reddened and
glared at the sheet before him as if it contained a warning of the
presence in his household of a serpent pledged to destroy its peace.
"What--what--what's this?" he spluttered.
"I can't allow your love to make a coward of me--turn me from my duty,
Daddy."
Obadiah blinked as he considered this mutiny. Judgment and experience
warned him to control himself. Unpleasant differences in the past had
not always resulted as he could have wished. There had been times when
he had been forced not only to sue Virginia for peace but likewise to
make abject overtures to that firmest of allies, Serena.
Obadiah thought rapidly. Outside of moral suasion, modern opinion
recognizes but few methods for the influencing of eighteen year old
female insurgents. If Obadiah argued, he would get mad. In his dilemma,
he surrendered, but not with good grace. "Well," he yielded sulkily,
"if you feel that way about it, have it your own way." Scowling
darkly, he flung his paper from him and departed for his office with
asperity.
From the porch Virginia waved him a last good bye. "Poor Daddy. He is so
afraid that I will get sick," she thought, pensively, as she watched
the disappearing car. But in a moment her good spirits returned and she
hurried into the kitchen. Serena was forced to lay aside her work until
the chicken was daintily arranged in a basket with other delicacies
added by the old negress in reparation, possibly, for her weakness in
yielding to Ike a small portion of the invalid's fare.
Later that morning Virginia arrived at the hospital. Following the
directions given her, she found herself standing in the doorway of a
long room on the second floor. On each side of a center aisle ran a row
of white bedsteads. The walls, painted a dull buff, were pierced by
many windows and the linoleum in the aisle and the hard wood floor
were waxed and polished until they shone. In this place, cleanliness,
fresh air, and sunshine reigned.
The beds were filled with pajama clad men. To the embarrassed young girl
it was as if she had blundered into a man's bedroom, and impulsively
she turned to flee.
A cheery voice arrested her, and the nurse whom she had met in the
reception room on the previous day greeted her. "I told you that I
would meet you here." She smiled with a frank cordiality which instantly
dissipated the visitor's embarrassment.
Virginia knew now that she liked this young woman, even though she was
a great tease, so she answered the smile with one of equal friendliness
and told her, "It is nice to find someone I know"; but instantly she
referred to the cause for her visit. "How is he?"
"I think that we have his fever under control," laughed the nurse.
"Now she is beginning to tease," thought Virginia. "I won't notice
it."
The nurse went on. "He is really getting along fine. If I were you I
shouldn't give a moment's worry to that young man's health. Don't
trouble to plan your remarks to him, either. He won't listen to them. He
does most of the talking."
The walk down the aisle between those beds, each with its pair of
masculine optics, was a trial for the girl. It seemed miles. At last,
safely by this gauntlet of inquisitive male glances, she found herself
looking down into those same black eyes which had looked into hers
for a second out on Forest Avenue. Then they were dazed with pain,
now they were filled with friendly inquiry.
The nurse, Miss Knight, was direct and explicit. "Joe," she announced,
"this is the young lady who says that she put you here."
Joe accepted this surprising remark as a matter of amusement which
increased as the nurse went on.
"Now she comes to soften the hard blows with tender words and kind
attentions."
Virginia blushed furiously. She thought Miss Knight's manner towards
men distinctly common.
A deep voice came from the bed. "I am very glad to meet you and be able
to thank you for what I have been told you did for me, Miss Dale. That
accident was my hard luck." He put his whole soul into his smile of
welcome and the girl knew that she liked it.
Having endeavored to relieve his guest's embarrassment, he turned upon
Miss Knight, the greatly delighted cause of it, and adapted his manner
and speech to her case. "Say, sister, blow. Blow while the breeze will
toss you away. I haven't noticed any invitations for you to sit in on
this peace conference."
The nurse flared at his words, although his smile had tempered them.
Drawing herself up, she made answer with great dignity.
"You don't need to urge me not to hang around while your wounds are
being dressed with soothing lotions. It's not necessary to hit me with
an automobile to get me out of the way," she exclaimed with great
sarcasm, and flounced away.
"The gloom of night departs," he chuckled, and, turning dancing eyes
upon his visitor, continued softly, "and now comes dawn."
Virginia flushed again. "For all that you know, it may be stormy,"
she retorted, astonished at her own glib tongue. The merry banter of
the patient and nurse had surprised her. She had been taught that this
sort of thing was vulgar. Yet, somehow, it didn't seem so dreadful.
She suspected that she rather liked it and was troubled by this symptom
of innate depravity. Now she became aware that those black eyes were
studying her, and mischief gleamed in their depths.
"Our meeting was very sudden yesterday," he laughed. "I didn't
have a chance to give you my card. My name is Joseph Tolliver Curtis.
Those who--" he hesitated and then went on--"are my friends, call me
Joe." Happiness radiated from him. He was so good humored that it
was contagious.
The visitor beamed upon the patient. "My name is Virginia Dale," she
explained.
"I know it," he admitted, and then, with the manner of intense personal
interest, he demanded, "Do your friends--your intimate friends--by any
chance call you 'Virge'?"
"I should say not." The girl's eyes flashed as she retorted, "They
would hear from me."
"By letter," he inquired, "or telephone?" In a moment he continued,
"I have it. You will sing to them just as you are going to sing to me."
"Sing to you?"
"Of course you are going to sing to me. Every one who visits a hospital
should sing. It was found wonderfully soothing to the patients in
the big army hospitals during the war. After they had listened to
the performers they were more contented to endure their suffering."
"They would have died on the spot if I'd sung," she answered.
They both laughed in the exuberance of their youth at their own nonsense
until his injured ribs stopped him and she became very serious.
"I came, today--" her manner was almost shy--"to tell you how sorry
I am for that accident. It makes me unhappy to think of you suffering
here through my fault."
"How can you blame yourself? You had nothing at all to do with it," he
declared with great earnestness.
"I told our chauffeur to hurry," she explained, and then with finality,
"if he hadn't, there would have been no collision."
Again his injured ribs subdued his laughter. "If everybody had stayed
off the street, I wouldn't have been hurt. That's your argument." He
studied her face for a moment and then resumed. "Listen, I am going to
tell you a secret. Promise never to tell."
"Honest," she agreed.
"I was running away over the speed limit. I must have been going forty
miles an hour."
Virginia became the custodian of his secret with great calmness and
solemnly confessed, "We were running over the speed limit, too. Ike
usually does. He knows that I enjoy going fast. The speed limit in this
town is away too low, I think."
"Yes," he concurred, "I wouldn't have been hurt worse if I had been
running twice as fast. The point is, that we could both be arrested and
fined for speeding."
"They always arrest Ike," she explained with complacency. "He doesn't
care a bit. He's used to it." Anxiety arose in her eyes. "Surely,
they wouldn't arrest one as badly hurt as you?"
"You don't know that judge." Joe spoke with experience. "If they
brought a dying man into his court who had only fifty dollars to leave
to his widow and children, that judge would take it from him for
speeding. That is, if he rode a motorcycle."
"Oh, the injustice of it. Doesn't he care for motorcyclists?"
"No," asserted Joe with great forcefulness. "Nobody likes a
motorcyclist."
"I do," proclaimed Virginia, and then, after taking a moment to recover
from the embarrassment of her own outspokenness, she continued, "It's
not right. They are entitled to equal justice," as if enunciating a
newly discovered truth.
"Sure, they are entitled to it, but they don't get it. That's why I
must keep quiet. My accident insurance will take care of my hospital
bills and my job will keep."
"Why don't you collect damages?" urged Virginia with great gravity.
"From whom?"
After a moment's consideration, she solved the legal problem. "From
me--that is, from my father, for me."
At the reference to her father a change came in the injured man. His good
humor faded. "No," he said decidedly. "In the first place I wouldn't
accept money from your father and in the second place he would not give
any."
"You don't know my father," she said with pride. "He is a very
just man. Sometimes he's gruff and a little cross but he doesn't
mean anything by that. He always wants to do the right and generous
thing." Her face was alight with loyalty and admiration.
"Does he?" There was a note of sarcasm in his voice which disappeared,
and he said no more after he had read her eyes.
She misinterpreted the change in him. "I have stayed too long," she
worried. "You are tired." She remembered the chicken. "I brought you
something." She put the plate of fowl beside him.
He viewed it in joyous anticipation. "Fine," he shouted. "If there is
one thing I love, it is fried chicken. How did you guess it?"
She smiled at Miss Knight who had joined them. "A bird told me," she
answered him.
The nurse put her hands on her hips and viewed the visitor with marked
suspicion at this remark, but, as if satisfied that her distrust was
unfounded, she retired to the diet kitchen from which hearty laughter
immediately thereafter resounded.
"Good bye," she told him almost shyly.
His good spirits had returned. "You and I are friends, and remember, we
are always going to be friends."
She nodded and said again, "Good bye, Mr. Curtis."
"My friends call me Joe," he reminded her.
Virginia hesitated, and then, "Good bye--Joe," she whispered and left
the ward with a sweet little smile.
In the hall Miss Knight rejoined her. "Before you go I want to show
you something which is our pride and joy at the present moment," she
explained to the girl. She opened a door and displayed a beautifully
furnished room which glistened in its cleanliness.
"It is very attractive, but why is the room different?" asked Virginia.
The nurse pointed to a bronze tablet. It bore the name of the donor, one
well known in South Ridgefield.
"What a beautiful idea," the girl exclaimed.
"Isn't it?" responded the nurse. "The gift includes not only the
furniture but the endowment of the bed for five years." She laughed.
"The man who gave it is ahead of the game. He was hurt in a railroad
accident and was here for a couple of months. He sued the railroad
company and collected more than enough from them to do this."
Afterwards, by Virginia's express wish, she was taken to the nursery
and permitted to hold a recently arrived guest in her arms, who
happened at the moment to be awake. She was allowed to peek into the
maternity ward with its beds filled with women, and her tour ended in
the dispensary where she met Dr. Jackson and a nurse who were busily
engaged in caring for the ailments of the sick babies the mothers
brought in from outside. At last she left for home, and on the way
she thought of this strange new world she had been shown in this big
brick building, but principally she thought of a pair of black eyes that
laughed and of the gross injustices to which down trodden motorcyclists
were the victims.
Later that afternoon, Miss Knight was very busy among the shining
utensils in the diet kitchen when she was disturbed by another visitor.
"I beg your pardon," said a voice, "but could you direct me to a
patient? My name," he continued suavely, "is Wilkins--Hezekiah
Wilkins." He wiped his bald head, and went on. "It's very warm
today--extremely so."
"Sure, it's warm," agreed Miss Knight, "and this electric heater
makes it a darn sight warmer."
Hezekiah intended to give the nurse a look of sympathetic understanding,
but ended by giving her a friendly grin. "I comprehend your point of
view," he added. "A trip to a pleasant resort would be more agreeable,
don't you think?"
Miss Knight viewed his words in the sense of a tentative invitation and
considered the merriment in his eyes suspicious in one of his age. She
froze and demanded with the utmost frigidity, "Whom do you wish to see?"
Utterly innocent that he had all but persuaded this sophisticated nurse
that he was one of those aged profligates of whom young women had
best beware, Hezekiah drew forth an envelope upon which he had entered
certain notes which he now found difficult to decipher, and told her.
She led the way and the lawyer followed through the ranks of curious
eyes. He vigorously mopped at his shining cranium and held his inverted
panama before him as if taking a collection of errant drops of moisture
that they might not mar the polished floor. This detracted from the
dignity of Hezekiah's progress.
Seating himself by Joe Curtis's bed, the attorney gazed at the youth
for a few moments in polite curiosity.
The motorcyclist returned the look with one of undisguised distrust.
"My name is Hezekiah Wilkins," announced the lawyer when the mutual
scrutiny had continued so long that it threatened to become embarrassing.
"I have reasons to believe that I am speaking to Mr. Joseph Tolliver
Curtis."
"You've got me, Steve," responded Joe.
"I've what?" inquired Hezekiah, much perplexed. Light dawned upon
him. "Oh, yes--quite so--assuredly," he indulged in a soft chuckle.
"I am dense at times. Slow might be better, eh?" Again he chuckled.
"Slow for the rising generations, particularly--" he smiled genially
at Joe--"when they ride motorcycles."
Joe abated none of his vigilance. His policy was that of watchful waiting.
"The day is very warm," continued Hezekiah, looking about the ward
with interest. "This is a delightfully cool and pleasant place. You
are to be congratulated upon having such comfortable quarters in which
to recuperate."
"Say!" Joe's voice was distinctly hostile. "Are you the advertising
agent for this hospital?"
Hezekiah's trained ear sensed unfriendliness abroad. He changed his
manner of approach with the quickness of a skilled strategist. "Mr.
Curtis," he went on briskly, "I represent Mr. Obadiah Dale. You have
no doubt heard of him?"
Joe nodded.
"Your motorcycle ran into Mr. Dale's automobile yesterday," the
lawyer resumed. "I do not come to seek compensation for the injury to
his car. I am delighted, finding you as I do upon a bed of pain, to
be upon a much pleasanter mission." Hezekiah smiled benignantly.
"There was a witness to the accident. With some difficulty, I have
located him and procured his statement. While it may be conceded that
this person has no special skill or training in estimating the speed of
moving vehicles, he is" (the attorney's manner expressed assurance)
"prepared to testify that you were operating your machine at a speed
in excess of that permitted by law." He paused as if awaiting an
incriminating admission.
"Go on," snapped Joe.
Hezekiah continued with increased emphasis. "Assuming this to be true,
it appears that you were entirely or in part responsible for the accident
and the consequent damage to Mr. Dale's car and your own person."
"Not on your life," cried Joe with great excitement. "I have a witness
who says the Dale car was to blame for the accident and that it was
exceeding the speed limit."
"Surely." Mr. Wilkins chuckled. "There are always witnesses for both
sides. My gracious, if this were not true how could we have law suits?
It's the reputation of a witness for truth and veracity which counts
in court, my boy."
"I know it."
"Admitting your witness," Hezekiah resumed with great cheerfulness,
"the speed of your own machine is certain to be the subject of
controversy. My client has no desire to enter into this. He waives
it." Hezekiah likewise waved his glasses and then went on speaking
much more rapidly as one hurrying to be rid of a task in which he has
no heart. "My client not only waives your personal responsibility
and the material damage suffered by him, but authorizes me, in his
behalf, to tender you this check in the sum of twenty-five dollars to
assist in the defrayment of your hospital expenses."
Joe Curtis's eyes flashed with temper. "Obadiah Dale and his money can
go straight to the devil," he roared, in a voice which startled the
entire ward and made the lawyer jump.
"Calm yourself, Sir," urged Hezekiah. "Undue excitement is injudicious
in your physical condition. Bless my soul, there may be grounds for
differences over the sum tendered, but I can see no reason for intense
anger."
Down the aisle came Miss Knight, stern of face. "Say," she demanded,
"do you think that this is a livery stable, Joe? If you do, you had
better wake up. That rough stuff doesn't go around here. Do you get me?"
He gave her a most sheepish glance. "Sister," he began.
The nurse's eyes flashed. "Must I speak to you again about that
'sister' habit. I won't stand for it." She explained to the lawyer,
"I not only have to nurse these men but I have to teach them manners,
too."
Before her righteous indignation, a great meekness descended upon Joe.
"I am sorry, Miss Knight. I didn't mean to start a rough house, only
I--got mad." He smiled at her.
She surrendered to his humility and that smile. She adjusted his pillow
and brushed the hair back from his eyes with her hand. "You are a bad
boy, Joe. I am going to forgive you for this, but the next time you
start anything, you will be punished." She shook a threatening finger
at him. "Do you understand?"
"Yes'm," he answered in the tone and manner of a naughty small boy.
He rolled his head towards the lawyer. "I owe you an apology for losing
my temper."
"Never mind, my boy," said Hezekiah, who had viewed the calming of the
storm with relief. "A gale clears the atmosphere. Plain speaking begets
clear understanding." Resuming his glasses, the lawyer regarded the
youth with great friendliness, and, after a moment, deemed it safe to go
on. "You expressed yourself so--ah--" (he sought for an inoffensive
term) "with such certainty of feeling that I assume that you have
determined upon some measure of adjustment yourself."
Again Joe Curtis's eyes flashed. "There can be no adjustment between
Obadiah Dale and me," he answered coldly.
"No?" Hezekiah's regret had the ring of sincerity. "In a friendly
spirit towards you, my boy," he urged, "I would advise against the
development of an hostile feeling towards Mr. Dale. He had no more to
do with that accident than the man in the moon."
"I know it," admitted Joe.
"The institution of an action at law is an expensive proceeding. As a
lawyer I warn you that the outcome would be extremely uncertain. Who can
tell what a jury will do?" Hezekiah shook his head solemnly, thereby
registering his grave doubts of the action of twelve men good and true.
"Institute an action," repeated Joe, his eyes dancing with mischief.
"Say, Uncle, when I sue that old skate, it sure is going to be some
case."
Hezekiah waxed indignant. This may have been due either to Joe's
intimation of relationship to himself or to the opprobrious designation
of his client as an old skate. "Don't mislead yourself," he exclaimed
peevishly. "You will be thrown out of court."
Joe ruffled visibly. "Who is going to throw me out of court?" he
demanded. "Obadiah Dale?" Another idea struck him. He gave the lawyer a
most threatening and pugnacious glance. "Maybe you think _you_ can
do it?"
Hezekiah's amazement at the suspicion that either he or his client
contemplated physical violence upon this young giant, swathed in
bandages, was extreme. "Gorry diamonds, you must be crazy," he
gasped, and then the other's point of view came to him. He burst into
a big booming peal of honest amusement, an infectious laugh which
brought instant peace. "My friend," he chuckled, "you misunderstand
me. I attempted to suggest that in view of the evidence which I can
produce, a court would refuse to consider your claim."
"Not with the witness I have," Joe insisted.
"Well, what about this wonderful witness of yours?" chuckled Hezekiah,
comfortable in the assurance of holding the master hand.
"My witness" (the calmness of his voice did not quite conceal a note of
exultation in it) "is Virginia Dale."
CHAPTER VIII
ANOTHER OPPORTUNITY
In the Dale home, dinner was served in the middle of the day on Sunday,
and Serena caused the meal to partake of the nature of a banquet.
Abstemious in week day luncheons, Obadiah succumbed to the flesh pots
on the seventh day and thereafter relapsed into slumber during digestion
even as a boa-constrictor.
He was sleeping off his Sunday engorgement in a porch chair. His head
drooped awkwardly and he had slumped into his best clothes, while from
time to time he choked and coughed and made weird noises. All about him
lay the peace of a summer Sabbath broken only by the low hum of the bees
gathering sweetness from the blooming honeysuckle vine near by. Only
the energetic resisted the combined attacks of plenteousness and the
somnolent afternoon.
Virginia had not surrendered to the soporific tendencies of the hour.
She had conversed with her father until made aware that, mentally
speaking, he was no longer with her. Such knowledge is discouraging even
to the most enthusiastic of female dialogists, and so, as the minutes
passed, her words lost force and her sentences fire. Compelled to seek
other fields of interest, the girl strolled aimlessly about the lawn
until she came to the gate. The street looked cool and inviting beneath
its arching elms and she moved down it slowly. She had almost reached
the corner when a woman's voice sounded from an awning shaded porch,
"Virginia, come here. Don't you pass my house without stopping." It
was Mrs. Henderson.
"Yes, Hennie, I'm coming. I was sure that you were taking a nap."
The girl turned up a walk, bordered with blooming rose bushes, towards
an old-fashioned house. "You are as busy as usual, I suppose?" she
continued, after she had been affectionately greeted by her hostess.
Mrs. Henderson nodded. No other woman in South Ridgefield gave as much
of her time and, proportionately, of her wealth to help others as did
this strangely constituted widow. Hers was a frank nature, given to the
expression of its views without regard to time or place. She had the
faculty of so phrasing her remarks that they cut their victim cruelly
and convulsed her hearers. So, respected for her innate goodness, and
feared for her sharp tongue, Mrs. Henderson had many acquaintances
but few friends. She was judged in the light of a magazine of high
explosives, dangerous to those near, but likely to blow up if left
without attention. Many were her friends because they were afraid not
to be, but there were those who appreciated her character. Strangely,
these were they who had waged mighty battles with her, to emerge from
strife her devoted adherents. Having felt her sting, they dubbed her
harmless as a dove, delighting in her intimate companionship. Such a one
had been Virginia's mother.
But Obadiah had no place in this category. Soon after the death of his
wife, Mrs. Henderson had discovered that a girl who worked in his mill
was sick and in dire want. She asked him to assist the sufferer, but,
to her surprise, the mill owner refused. Thereupon, Mrs. Henderson,
without mincing words, expressed her opinion of him. Also, she repeated
her remarks to a friend.
Obadiah's legs were thin, and under stress of excitement he pitched
his voice high. When it became known that Mrs. Henderson had likened the
mill owner, to his face, to a mosquito sucking blood from his employees,
the whole town laughed. The tale spread to his mill, during a time of
labor unrest, and a cartoon portraying the manufacturer as a mosquito
hovering about emaciated workers was circulated.
A strike followed in which the employees were successful and Obadiah
never forgave Mrs. Henderson for giving a weapon to his opponents.
Yet, strangely enough, he had never attempted to interfere with her
friendship for his daughter. Possibly, knowing the widow, he feared that
she would openly defy him, and, abetted by Serena, carry the war into his
own house, to the greater enjoyment of his fellow townsmen.
As Mrs. Henderson welcomed Virginia, she was thinking of other things
than Obadiah. She was filled with amusement and gave vent to laughter.
"Dearie, how on earth did you get mixed up with that minstrel parade? I
never dreamed that my little girl would startle this town." Again the
widow gave way to merriment. She was thinking of a group of women she
had caught discussing with great unkindness the outcome of the girl's
efforts to make the pickaninnies happy. Hennie's championship of her
favorite had been unusually vigorous, and the endeavors of the critics
to reverse themselves had resembled a stampede.
"We had nothing to do with the parade," Virginia told her. "We
followed it so that the orphans might enjoy the music. As we had nearly
frightened them out of their wits, I took them for a ride to make up."
"I heard how you came to take the orphans for a ride. I could understand
that, but the minstrel part puzzled me," Mrs. Henderson's amusement
faded into seriousness. "That ride idea is a splendid one. It would
add so much to the happiness of those children." She continued, "I
have been on the Board of that Home for years. There are so many
things to be done over there and so little to do with. No one is
particularly interested in the place. We must find some way, though,
to arrange rides for those orphans now that you have started things
going."
Virginia was instantly fired with great enthusiasm. "I'll take them
out each week, myself," she promised.
Mrs. Henderson smiled. "We can't allow you to continue to excite too
much interest in this town."
The girl disregarded the objection. "But I started it, Hennie."
"That is very true, but you can't expect your father to let you use
his fine car for those children. Anyway, it is not necessary to bother
about that, because it is entirely too small. We need a truck. Something
in which movable seats can be placed."
"Like those at the mill? Why not ask Daddy for one of them?" suggested
Virginia.
"They would be the very thing," Mrs. Henderson admitted, but she shook
her head hopelessly. "Your father would never let you have one of them.
We must look elsewhere."
"Oh, yes, he will, Hennie," Virginia assured her with great confidence.
The widow's doubting eye moved the girl to remonstrate, "You don't
know him at all. I think that it is the strangest thing, that you have
been my father's neighbor all of these years and don't understand him
better."
Mrs. Henderson displayed sudden stern-eyed interest in a flower bed upon
her lawn, and the toe of her shoe softly tapped the floor of the porch.
The girl leaned towards the older woman, her face aglow with pride
and admiration, as she searched for some acknowledgment of her words.
"Daddy is so noble and so good," she explained in a voice modulated by
tenderness. "He spends all of his time thinking about other people."
The lines of Mrs. Henderson's mouth relaxed, and the tempo of the
tapping toe slowed. Her eyes twinkled merrily.
"Isn't it wonderful, Hennie?" and Virginia looked up to a face for a
moment puzzled.
"Very wonderful, child," responded the widow, and Virginia never
dreamed that there was a delicate note of sarcasm in the voice. Leaning
forward, Mrs. Henderson clasped the girl's hand. "Your father is a
lucky man to have such love and affection," she said, and then as
though thinking aloud, she murmured, "I hope that he appreciates it."
After a pause she returned to the subject of the orphans with great
vigor. "Some one in this town must loan us a truck. That is all there is
about it."
"Let Daddy do it. He will love to."
The hopeful enthusiasm of the girl was lost upon the older woman. "Well,
it will do no harm to give him the opportunity," she conceded dryly;
"but I wouldn't count on it too much if I were you." Suddenly, she
remembered something. "Dear me, I almost forgot it. I must run over to
the Lucinda Home a minute. You come along, dear," she urged.
"Hennie, I can't. I haven't a hat. I am not dressed to go out."
Mrs. Henderson smiled. "It doesn't make any difference what you wear
over there. Most of the old ladies are so nearly blind that they can't
tell what you have on."
So Virginia agreed to go, and, as the distance to the institution was
short, in a few minutes they entered the grounds.
The Lucinda Home for Aged Women occupied a large brick building. A
triple-decked porch, supported by posts and brackets of ornamental iron
work covered the entire front of the edifice and afforded delightful
resting places from which to view the beautiful grounds.
The two women ascended the steps to the lower porch. On either side of
the entrance stretched a line of chairs occupied by old ladies. They
rocked and fanned and stared across the grounds with dulled, unseeing
eyes, as if watching and waiting for something.
The afternoon light flashed against the spectacles. It brought out the
snow of the moving heads. It showed the deep carved lines of age and it
disclosed the hands, knotted and toil worn.
Once these faces were soft and full; these eyes snapped with health and
joy. Love showered its kisses. The world showed wondrously beautiful
in the tender light of romance and the voice of hope rang clear and
strong. Came babies for these hands to fondle and caress, and tiny
forms to be upheld as little feet struggled in first steps upon the
rough and hilly path. Noble deeds of unselfishness gleamed in the
shadowed lives of these women as they battled with the adversities
which all who live must face. Slowly their beauty faded; their eyes
no longer sparkled; their hands were red and hard. Little ones grew
into men and women and went away, filled with hope and proud in their
strength, leaving loneliness behind. Through the years, a shadow,
almost indiscernible to youthful eyes, drew ever closer. One by one,
they had seen friends and loved ones pass behind the black veil, until
they were alone in a world, cold, loveless, without hope, waiting----
Waiting. Yes, waiting--slowly rocking and fanning--living anew the past,
and peering out into the sunshine as if they sought with their poor eyes
to glimpse the approach of that enfolding shadow of mystery.
The visitors paused for a moment at the entrance, sobered by the tragedy
of age. Near them, an old woman became suddenly active. The sweep of her
chair increased as she glanced at Virginia. She stopped and whispered to
her neighbor.
This aged one started, as if awakened from slumber, and she, too,
inspected the girl. Then, she placed her lips by the ear of her deaf
companion and in a shrill voice of great carrying power, cried, "Powder
makes her look pale. They all use it nowadays." She stopped for breath
and screamed, "Her dress is too short. Her mother ought to have better
sense than to let her run around that way."
Luckily for the embarrassed girl, at this moment Mrs. Henderson led her
into the reception room and left her to regain her composure while she
transacted her business with the matron in an adjoining room.
The remarkable quiet which reigned in this home of age oppressed
Virginia, so that when Mrs. Henderson returned with the matron, she
cried, impulsively, "Oh, Hennie, I am glad that you are back. This
place is so still that it is lonesome."
Mrs. Henderson turned to Mrs. Smith, the matron. "That is what I have
always said," she argued. "The old ladies like it quiet, but we overdo
it here. The place is a grave. We should have more entertainment." She
looked questioningly at the girl. "What do you think should be done,
child?"
Virginia's blue eyes were very serious as she answered, "I hardly
know--almost anything which would make it happier. It needs something
to stir it up," she ended impulsively.
The older woman laughed and Mrs. Henderson put her arm about the girl's
waist, and suggested, "You have nothing on your hands, child. Why can't
you arrange some sort of an entertainment for these elderly women?"
"Oh, I couldn't," she demurred shyly.
"Certainly you can, you are quite old enough to undertake the task of
making these old people happier for an afternoon."
Into the girl's mind came a remembrance of her birthday gift. "I will
be glad to do it, Hennie," she agreed with great seriousness.
They paused at Mrs. Henderson's gate as they returned from the Lucinda
Home. "Won't you come in, dear?" urged the older woman.
The girl, dreamily engaged in planning marvelous but impossible
entertainments for the stirring up of the old ladies, did not hear.
"Come and have tea with a solitary somebody?" the widow begged the
girl wistfully. "You think that the Lucinda Home is lonesome, but
don't forget that an old lady who loved your mother and who loves
you is lonesome, too."
"Dearest Hennie, you haven't the slightest idea of what loneliness
is." Virginia smiled sweetly at the older woman and kissed her. "I
would enjoy taking tea with you but I must not forget my father. Probably
all afternoon he has been making plans to help the people who work in his
mill. I think he is so like my mother--always trying to make other people
happier. You loved her, Hennie, and you know him. I want you to help me
to be unselfish like them."
During this recital, Mrs. Henderson underwent a severe test in
self-repression, the high praise of Obadiah's disinterestedness
nearly causing severe internal injury. There was yet an ominous flash
in her eye as she bade the girl farewell.
Virginia found her father awaiting her. His digestive organs were
protesting by certain unpleasant twinges, against the extra work he had
forced upon them.
"Where have you been?" he demanded of her sharply.
She dropped into the chair by his side. "At Mrs. Henderson's, Daddy."
"You left me alone," he complained.
"You went to sleep and I was so lonesome, Daddy dear."
"That makes no difference. You should not have left me. You have the
week days to yourself. I ought to have your Sundays."
"Oh, I am sorry that I was so thoughtless," Virginia reproached
herself, with a suspicion of tears in her eyes.
"Yes, you were thoughtless," Obadiah grumbled. "You must learn to
think of others. Don't get teary. That always disturbs me."
Virginia was engaged in a battle to keep back her tears when the notes of
a ragtime melody resounded through the calm of the Sabbath evening. Ike
approached. The gorgeousness of his apparel eliminated every variety of
lily, except the tiger, from consideration. His suit was of electric
blue. His shirt was white, broadly striped with royal purple, and it
peeped modestly from beneath a tie of crimson. His hat was straw,
decorated with a sash of more tints than the bow of promise.
Ike was happy. He had loitered through the afternoon before the meeting
house of his faith, impressing the brethren and the sisters with the
magnificence of his attire. He deemed it, socially speaking, to have
been a perfect day.
It was now his intention to partake of refreshment before returning
again into the shadow of the sacred edifice, not then, however, to give
pleasure to the faithful in general, but rather for the special and
particular delight of an amber hued maiden who at the moment held his
flitting fancy.
Filled with pleasant anticipations and in cadence with his melody, Ike
approached the house.
Obadiah arose hastily as the sweet tones struck his ear and awaited the
arrival of the musical one at the edge of the porch.
At the sight of the gaunt form of the manufacturer, a dulcet timbre
departed from Ike's performance and as he approached, the volume of
sound diminished in proportion to the square of the distance. Opposite
the mill owner it ceased.
"Good evening Misto Dale." The voice was humbly courteous.
Disdaining the kindly salutation of his hireling, Obadiah made outcry.
"I want the car. Get the car," he commanded.
Ike halted.
These were portentous words. The Dale car was not often used on the
seventh day. Ike himself was opposed to the Sunday riding habit.
Assuming a confidential attitude towards his employer as if imparting
a secret of moment, he intimated, "Ah ain' got no confidence in dat
lef' han' hin' tiah, Misto Dale, a tall."
Obadiah glared at the tasty garb of his minion with disgust, and flew
into a rage. "I pay you to put confidence in that tire," he bleated.
"Yas'r, yas'r," Ike surrendered hurriedly. "Ah gwine pump er li'l
aiah in dat tiah. Dat fix 'im."
When Ike, shorn of his finery, returned with the car, Virginia, in
obedience to an abrupt invitation from her father, was prepared to
join him for the ride.
Obadiah's conscience did not usually trouble him; but today, as the
machine started and he settled himself by his daughter, it struck him
that she seemed unusually pale. He could not well overlook, either,
the note of sadness which had played about the girl's mouth and eyes
since his remarks to her. These things made Obadiah uncomfortable. His
explosion at Ike had acted as a counter-irritant to his indigestion,
and he felt relieved.
They passed a woman driving a pretty runabout. In times of great good
feeling Obadiah had avowed his intention of purchasing Virginia a light
car which she could drive herself. However, it took direct affirmative
action to persuade the mill owner to open his check book even for his
own family; and, as Virginia had been contented with the big car and Ike
to drive it, nothing had ever come of the intention.
"Did you notice that runabout?" Obadiah inquired. "How would one of
that type suit you?" If he could get Virginia to chatter along as usual,
he could enjoy his evening.
"Oh, I'd like it," she exclaimed. The girl was thinking rapidly. Not
for nothing was she Obadiah's daughter when it was necessary to take
advantage of a situation. "I thought that you had given up the idea of
getting me a car, Daddy."
"No, indeed. It seemed to me that you were not particularly interested
in one." He shrewdly placed the responsibility for delay upon her.
"I am _now_. More so than ever," Virginia declared. "I wasn't sure
before what kind of a car I wanted. Now I know."
"Well?" Obadiah's enthusiasm in the proposed purchase had cooled as
hers increased.
She squeezed his arm up against her and announced breathlessly, "I want
a truck, Daddy."
"A truck!" Obadiah viewed his daughter as if he deemed the immediate
attentions of an alienist essential in her case. "What on earth would
you do with a truck?"
"I need it to take those colored orphans out for a ride each week," she
explained, full of the plan. "I am going to have benches made to fit on
each side of the truck so that it will take them all comfortably. Isn't
it a fine idea?"
Obadiah, dumfounded for the moment, regained speech and sought
information as one who had not heard aright. "Do you mean to say that
you want me to buy a truck to haul those negro children around town?"
"Yah--yah--yah." Upon the front seat, Ike so far forgot the proprieties
of his station that he gave vent to noisy merriment at the domestic
perplexities of gentlefolk.
"Keep your mind on your business," Obadiah commanded, glaring at his
chauffeur's neck.
Virginia, disregarding the _faux pas_ of the chauffeur and its condign
reproof, proceeded to explain her plans. "We have decided, Daddy, that
those orphans must be taken for a ride every week."
"Who has decided that?"
"Hennie and I have worked it all out."
"What has that woman got to do with it?" he snapped. "Does she expect
me to buy trucks to haul all the negro children in town on pleasure
trips?"
Violent paroxysms beset Ike and bent him as a sapling in a gale.
Obadiah's eyes glared at the black neck as if, discharging X-rays, they
might expose the chauffeur's malady.
Heedless of disturbing influences, Virginia went on, "Hennie thought
that this car was too small. She felt that it would be better to get a
truck which would carry all the orphans than to use this."
"Indeed!" interjected Obadiah.
"I suggested to her that I would get you to loan us a truck from the
mill; but Hennie said that she was sure that you wouldn't let us have
it."
"Ahem--ahem," choked the mill owner, getting red in the face.
"I told her that I knew you would be glad to let us have it because you
did so love to help people," explained Virginia with great pride.
Obadiah shifted uneasily in his seat. "What did she say?"
"Hennie said that she wished me success."
Obadiah relaxed as one relieved from strain.
Sensing the change in him, Virginia cuddled up to her father full of
happiness and contentment as if the purchase of the truck was settled.
"Isn't it sweet, Daddy dear," she murmured gently, "within an hour
after I talked to Hennie you offer to buy me a car? Of course, you
don't care, so long as I am satisfied, whether I choose a runabout or a
truck." She took his hand and held it in her own, pressing it.
Obadiah appeared greatly interested in something upon the skyline.
"A truck," Virginia continued thoughtfully, "especially a fine large
one such as we would need--" Obadiah flinched--"would be in the way.
Our garage wouldn't hold it and Serena would object to it being left
in the yard." She arrived at a sudden determination. "Choose, Daddy,
whether you will buy me a truck or loan me one from the mill."
Obadiah's response was not delayed. "You had better use a mill truck,"
he agreed with a sigh which might have been of relief.
"Thank you, Daddy. I can hardly wait to tell Hennie," she exclaimed,
highly delighted at the outcome of her efforts.
Obadiah leaned towards his chauffeur. "Ike," he ordered, "you get the
new truck down at the mill, the first thing in the morning. Run it out
to Mrs. Henderson's house. Make all the row around her place you wish.
Tell her," Obadiah continued, "that it is there by my instructions, to
take those negro orphans riding." He paused. "Ike," he resumed more
forcibly, "don't you forget the noise."
"Yas'r," promised Ike with happy smiles of anticipation.
"That will be a dandy joke on Hennie," giggled Virginia. "Go very
early, Ike."
They were following a boulevard which now brought them to the Soldiers'
Home. Its fine buildings and large acreage were matters of great pride
to South Ridgefield. As they approached the central group of edifices,
they heard music.
"Let's stop for the band concert," suggested Virginia.
Obadiah, much relieved physically and mentally from recent disquietude,
was unusually complaisant. "Drive in, Ike," he directed.
They turned into a broad, paved road which followed the sides of a square
about which were located the principal buildings of the institution.
It bounded a tree shaded park with a band-stand in the center. Walks
radiating to the sides and corners of the square were lined with benches
occupied by veterans in campaign hats and blue uniforms, smoking,
chatting, and enjoying the music.
The inner edge of the roadway was lined with automobiles full of
visitors. Ike stopped upon the opposite side, in front of the quarters
of the Commanding Officer.
Hardly had they paused when a tall, fine looking man of a distinctly
military bearing, despite his white hair, hurried out to meet them.
"Mr. Dale," he greeted the manufacturer in a big booming voice, "I
am glad to welcome you to the Home."
Obadiah genially returned the salutation of Colonel Ryan. That officer,
being a man of rank, in charge of the Soldiers' Home, with power of
recommendation in government purchases, was one whose acquaintance it was
wise for even wealthy mill owners to cultivate.
When presented to Virginia, the Colonel bowed deeply. "I want you to
come up to the house and meet Mrs. Ryan," he urged. "You can hear
the music more comfortably there. I am proud of my band. They are old
fellows like you and me, Dale, but give them a horn and they have lots
of musical 'pep' left."
Mrs. Ryan met them at the head of the porch steps. "You have often heard
me speak of Mr. Dale," the Colonel, discreetly noncommittal as to his
manner of speaking, reminded her.
"Oh, yes, and I have heard of you, too." She smiled at Virginia and
explained to Obadiah, "I happen to have a good friend in that splendid
Mrs. Henderson, your neighbor."
The mill owner received this information with little enthusiasm, but,
learning that Mrs. Ryan was a victim of rheumatism, he advocated the
use of a liniment prepared by his father and applied with remarkable
results to both man and beast. Obadiah was hazy upon the mixture's
ingredients but was clear upon its curative qualities. Mrs. Ryan evincing
marked interest, the manufacturer entertained her with the intimate
details of miraculous recoveries.
Neither Virginia nor the Colonel being rheumatic, they failed to give
Obadiah's discourse the rapt interest of a true brother in pain. Their
attention wavered, wandered and failed, and the band played a crashing
air; but the rheumatic heeded not.
All hope of a general conversation having departed, the Colonel praised
his band to Virginia. "Every man in that organization is over sixty
years old," he bragged. "They get as much pleasure out of playing as
their audience does from their concert. It's a great band."
"They _do_ play well," the girl agreed. "I don't wonder that you are
proud of them. I love a brass band, myself. You do, too, Colonel Ryan.
I can tell by your face, when they play."
The Colonel grinned boyishly. "Yes," he admitted, "I think a band is
one of humanity's boons. I can't get close enough to one, when they
are playing, to satisfy me. I have to have some sort of an excuse to do
that, now-a-days--you'll do fine--let's go nearer."
The medical lecture was disturbed, that the audience might nod
understandingly to its husband, as they departed.
The Colonel chatted gaily. In the presence of a pretty woman he was a
typical soldier. About them were the benches filled with the white headed
veterans, as they entered the square. But a few years and these had
been the fighting men of the country--its defence--playing parts modest
or heroic on a hundred half forgotten battle fields. Now, they, too,
bowed with age, rested in their years, and waited--waited calmly, as
true soldiers should, with the taste of good tobacco upon their lips
and the blare of martial music in their ears, the coming of the ever
nearing shadow.
"Why have I never heard this band down town, Colonel Ryan? It is a
shame when they play so beautifully. Do they charge for concerts?"
asked Virginia, as an idea developed behind the blue eyes.
"People want young and handsome men to play for them if they pay for
it," laughed Colonel Ryan. "So my old codgers don't get many chances
of that sort."
"Who has charge of the band?" Virginia's manner meant business.
The Colonel loved a pretty face. He was enjoying himself. "Do you want
to object to the leader about his interpretation of a favorite air?"
"Don't tease, Colonel Ryan," she protested. "I want to know who has
authority to make engagements for the band. Please be serious."
"You frighten me into submission, Miss Dale. Do you wish to engage the
band?"
"I do, Colonel Ryan." The girl's voice was almost imploring.
He looked down into the depths of the pleading eyes. Never in his long
life had he refused a pretty woman anything, and it is doubtful if he
could have done so. Yet, he desired to prolong the pleasure of the
moment. "May I ask, without undue curiosity, for what purpose you desire
the organization?"
"I want them to give a concert for the old ladies at the Lucinda Home,"
she explained.
Colonel Ryan choked. He recovered himself quickly. Military training is
of value in difficult moments.
"I was over there this afternoon, Colonel Ryan. The place was so
lonesome that I thought it needed some excitement. They asked me to
give an entertainment. Your band would be the very thing. It plays so
loud that even the deaf ladies could hear."
He who had borne the burden of a regiment of men bowed sympathetically,
but his face and neck displayed symptoms of apoplexy.
"The Lucinda Home is a graveyard, Colonel Ryan. When I see all of these
old men sitting around and talking and smoking while the band plays
lively airs to them, it makes me sorry for those women. I should love to
live here. But I should die over there. It is dreadful to be lonesome."
Colonel Ryan agreed with great gravity.
Virginia waxed forceful. "Those old ladies should be made as happy as
these soldiers," she argued. "Isn't a woman as good as a man, Colonel
Ryan?"
The Commandant by his silence refused this challenge to a discussion upon
woman's rights.
"Those old ladies should have everything that these men have,"
maintained the girl, with great emphasis.
"Including tobacco?" suggested the Colonel solicitously.
"Of course not." Blue eyes snapped indignantly.
The boyish look was back in the Colonel's face. "I only wanted to be
sure," he explained soberly. "It has a very important place here."
"Oh, Colonel Ryan, you will joke, and I am so in earnest." Her eyes
were dark and tender and a soft pink flushed her cheeks. "A concert at
the Lucinda Home would be a wonderful thing if I could get your band."
"You can," the Colonel promised, laconically, "and it won't cost
you a cent." He became enthusiastic, "It will be a fine treat for
the old ladies and my boys will enjoy it, too. I'll have to warn the
old rascals about flirting," he chuckled. "They think that they are
regular devils among the ladies. I think that I will have to come along
myself to keep the old boys from breaking any ancient hearts."
"Will you come, Colonel Ryan?"
"Surely. You may count on me. Are there to be refreshments?"
"Why--yes!" She had never given a thought to them before, and when she
considered the food that it would take it almost frightened her.
"My old boys can eat as well as ever, particularly if it is soft stuff.
That band has less teeth than any similar organization in the world. It
is the toothless wonder," chuckled the Colonel. "Be sure that you have
plenty to eat."
As they ascended the steps of the Colonel's porch, Virginia warned him,
"Don't mention the concert to my father. I want to surprise him."
They found that Obadiah had exhausted his praises of the marvelous
liniment. Mrs. Ryan was now talking, and, though the subject-matter
was the same, the mill owner was not a reciprocal listener. He felt that
an immediate departure for home was necessary.
The Dale car rolled away from the Soldiers' Home, leaving the Commanding
Officer standing, hat in hand, upon the curb. A broad smile broke over
his face. "A band concert at the Lucinda Home," he chuckled. "You
might as well give one out in the cemetery." His face softened. "Bless
her heart," he whispered, as he turned back towards his house.
CHAPTER IX
HEZEKIAH HAS A SOLUTION
Mr. Jones had finished transcribing Obadiah Dale's morning dictation and
awaited a fitting moment to place the letters before the manufacturer to
receive his signature. Meanwhile, he smoked a cigarette and, with his
face sadly distorted on account of the smoke, manicured his nails with
his pocket knife.
This important part of a gentleman's toilet would gladly have been left
by Mr. Jones to a professional manicurist, because of the more skilled
attention and the valuable social privileges attached to such services,
had not the chronically depleted condition of his purse demanded the
exercise of rigorous economy.
In the glare of the pendant bulb, Kelly was engaged artistically in the
preparation of a crude but libelous cartoon of the stenographer.
A moment of rest and mental relaxation had descended upon the personal
staff of Obadiah. His hive of commercial industry had, for the moment,
ceased to buzz. Suddenly, the hall door was thrown open. Mr. Jones
suffered a severe laceration from the point of his own blade. Even
the artistic soul of Kelly was shaken by the abrupt intrusion.
Hezekiah Wilkins entered. His manner was hurried. Not as a messenger
bearing joyous news of great triumphs, but rather as an emissary charged
with intelligence of bitter flavor, who desires to get rid of it, that
he may turn to happier matters.
Having been courteously advised by the bleeding outer guard that the
manufacturer was not engaged at the moment, Hezekiah entered the inner
citadel. Obadiah was reading a voluminous mass of typewritten pages
which he laid aside at the coming of his attorney. Waving the lawyer to a
chair, he intimated that he awaited the further pleasure of his legal
adviser.
Seating himself, Hezekiah shoved both of his feet as far in front of him
as his short legs would permit. He studied the aspect of his shoes thus
presented, as if he had never before appreciated their beauty.
"Well?" Obadiah spoke curtly.
"I wish to discuss the matter of that young man in the hospital. Curtis
is his name--I think."
"All right," Obadiah agreed.
Hezekiah placed his palms together and gazed upwards as if in pious
meditation upon the words which he was about to utter.
Obadiah viewed the attitude of his adviser with disapprobation. "Go
ahead," he urged roughly. "Don't take all day."
The lawyer gave his employer a look of reproof. "It is very important,"
he announced with great calmness, "that legal matters be accurately
presented so that the facts deduced shall afford a sound basis for
correct judgment when appearing in court." Hezekiah explained with
dignity. "I have found that a moment given to the correct logical
presentation of facts tends to expedite a just solution of perplexing
questions." As he ceased speaking, he appeared to drift away into a
condition of deep cogitation under the very eyes of his employer.
Before this display of profound thought, Obadiah was helpless. Properly
chastened, he awaited in patience the outcome of the mental processes of
his learned subordinate.
After a period in which no sound was heard but the ticking of the clock,
Hezekiah recovered from his abstraction with a start, and announced,
"This young Curtis refuses to accept your check."
"Bigger fool he," Obadiah responded with indifference.
Hezekiah turned sharply upon the mill owner, "I don't agree with you
at all," he rapped.
Obadiah had great confidence in the judgment of his legal adviser. There
had been times when failing to follow it had cost him money. He became
uneasy. "Do you think that he has a case against me?"
"I would rather have his chances before a jury than yours."
"Is he going to bring suit?" Obadiah's uneasiness increased. He did
not care to be at the mercy of a South Ridgefield jury. He usually was
stuck.
"Yes, it's my opinion that he intends to bring an action against you.
He displayed marked animus."
"He displayed what?"
"Animus--unfriendliness," Hezekiah interpreted.
Obadiah's uneasiness affected his temper. "Why don't you speak
English?" he demanded, the pitch of his voice getting higher.
For an instant there was a flash in Hezekiah's eyes but when he spoke
he was perfectly calm. "I beg pardon, I failed to make allowances
for--your understanding."
Obadiah regarded his attorney angrily but made no reply. Years of
experience had warned him against verbal combat with this man. Usually he
did not awaken to the danger until he rankled under one of Hezekiah's
darts.
Disregarding the exchange of compliments, the lawyer went on, perfectly
unruffled, "Is there a reason for this young man to entertain ill will
against you?"
"I never heard of the fellow before," protested Obadiah.
"Is he acquainted with your daughter?"
"No." Obadiah hesitated after his denial and modified it. "She helped
to take him to the hospital and she has visited him since, I understand."
"Ah!" Comprehension lighted Hezekiah's face. "You told me," he
suggested, "that your daughter considered herself to be to blame for
the accident."
"Yes," Obadiah agreed with reluctance. "Virginia has a silly idea that
she was at fault. She felt very badly over the matter."
"And went to the hospital to express her regret and conceded
responsibility for the accident to the injured man. He told me that he
could rely on your daughter as a witness in his behalf."
"I'll be hanged," cried Obadiah, the tone of his voice reminding one
of Hennie's likening of him to a mosquito.
"You'll be stung with a fat verdict if he gets you into court with your
own daughter testifying against you. That's what will happen to you.
Probably she admitted responsibility in the presence of witnesses,"
Hezekiah pointed out with deepest pessimism.
"I won't have my daughter dragged into court as a witness against me,"
groaned Obadiah.
"How are you going to stop it? Ship her out of the state?" Hezekiah
suggested with a promptness which displayed unethical resourcefulness
in the suppression of embarrassing witnesses.
"Can't you arrange a compromise?" begged Obadiah.
"Not after this mistake." Hezekiah returned the check for twenty-five
dollars. "I'm as popular as a mouse in a pantry with that young fellow
after attempting to pass that on him." He gave the mill owner a glance
of curiosity. "How far would you let me go now?"
"Use your own judgment, only keep Virginia out of court."
Both men were silent for a time and then the lawyer spoke. "I tried to
sound young Curtis. I endeavored to discover if he had any settlement
in mind. All I found was a pronounced hostility to you personally and,"
Hezekiah smiled reminiscently, "to me as your representative."
"That's your imagination," exclaimed Obadiah and then, after the
custom of a malefactor of great wealth, went on, "How can we get at
him? He must be got at."
"I might suggest something--," Hezekiah appeared doubtful, lacking in
his usual assurance.
It irritated Obadiah to have this man upon whose judgment he had staked
his fortune display indecision in this trivial affair. "Out with it!
What's the matter with you? Have you got cold feet?" he stormed.
Hezekiah chuckled. "This case is complicated. The other side is most
unfriendly. It's pretty hard to keep out of court when the other fellow
wants to put you there," he argued, "I believe that I see a way if you
will give me full authority to make such settlement as I deem advisable
and," Hezekiah shifted uneasily, "allow me the assistance of counsel."
"Hezekiah Wilkins, have you gone crazy? Do you mean to ask me to hire
another lawyer to help you in this insignificant automobile case?"
groaned Obadiah.
"I haven't asked you to employ a lawyer. I asked for counsel."
"For the love of Mike, whose counsel do you require in this tempest in
a teapot?" shouted the exasperated mill owner.
"I wish, with your permission, to ask your daughter Virginia to be of
counsel."
"Thunderation," bawled Obadiah, shrilly, exploding with pent up
aggravation. "Have you gone out of your wits?" He surveyed the lawyer
as if he really believed his legal mentality to be addled. "Can't
I get it into your head--" he cast a look of utter contempt at the
massive cranium of the lawyer--"that my interest in this case is to
keep my daughter out of court? If it wasn't for her, I'd let that
brittle shanked motorcycling ass sue until they grow bananas in Canada."
"Your verbal pyrotechnics are interesting but hardly germane to the
subject," Hezekiah reproved his employer. "I have no intention of
dragging your daughter into court in the guise of a Portia, although
her beauty would----"
Obadiah's temper was on edge. "Come to the point, sir," he demanded.
"Cut out the hot air. My time is worth money."
For a moment Hezekiah gazed thoughtfully out of a window making strange
gestures with his glasses. Then, turning to the mill owner he smilingly
agreed. "As much valuable time has been utilized by you in prolix
descriptions, possibly amusing, assuredly slanderous and not tending in
the slightest degree to shed light upon our problem, I admit a necessity
for expedition."
Obadiah viewed his attorney with wrathful eyes but remained silent.
Even under the angry eyes of his employer a benignant look lighted the
countenance of the lawyer and his voice was very gentle as he resumed,
"It's an old adage--'Youth will be served.' In its arrogance,
youth defies the wisdom of age and the judgment of the ages. In its
careless irresponsibility, it knows not danger. In its assurance and
self-confidence it knows not fear. Clad in the armor of health, it
basks in the sunshine of its strength and blatantly rejoices in its
hopes."
"Hezekiah Wilkins, are you sick, or what in the devil is the matter with
you?" inquired the overwrought manufacturer.
"No, not sick, Obadiah," Hezekiah explained placidly, "not sick,
but happy--happy in that thought--a distinctly attractive one, and
exceptionally well-developed for your benefit. I regret," the lawyer
lamented, "that a stenographer was not present to preserve it. It is a
pity that the world should lose it--that it should be lost to those who
would understand and appreciate it--even love it."
Obadiah sank deep into his chair, encircled by gloom, as, appreciating
his inability to direct the train of his legal adviser's thought, he
allowed that worthy to pursue his own course.
"Youth calls to youth," the sentimental Hezekiah continued. "Youth
understands youth. Youth can persuade youth." Suddenly the attorney
seemed to thrust aside the gentle atmosphere in which he had been
immersed, and, fixing a most crafty look upon Obadiah, he snapped,
"You and I can't handle that fellow, but your daughter can. It's going
to cost you some money, though." He suffered a relapse. "Youth knows
neither the value of time nor money."
Obadiah was filled with relief. "By gum, you've hit it," he shouted.
"But why couldn't you get that off your chest without throwing a fit?"
he complained, ill-humoredly.
Once more Hezekiah reverted to sentiment. "The language of youth is
song, and its thought poetry," he sighed, after which he arose and
faced the manufacturer across his desk. "I am authorized to proceed in
accordance with my plan?" he asked--"to make the best settlement which
in my judgment can be made in the premises, through," he chuckled,
"the extraordinary channels to which I have recourse?"
"Go the limit, only keep it out of court," grumbled Obadiah. "Give
such instructions as you wish to Virginia and let her understand that
I am only interested in an amicable adjustment and do not care to be
bothered with details."
As Hezekiah departed through the outer office, he interrupted a
conversation between Mr. Jones and Kelly.
The stenographer met the intrusion with characteristic activity. Rushing
to his desk, he seized the recently typed letters and bore them into
Obadiah's presence. His haste, if noted by the attorney, should have
indicated that prolonged presence in the throne room had resulted in
marked delay to the normal performance of imperial functions.
Apparently Hezekiah's mind was engrossed by lighter matters. He moved
spryly, whistling a cheery melody not at present in vogue but much in
favor in his youth.
Mr. Jones came out of Obadiah's room hurriedly. The sound of stern
reproof came also, until it was shut off by the closing of the door. It
seemed as if the spirit of the stenographer expanded in relief, in the
familiar atmosphere of his own domain; as one who, having accomplished
a hazardous journey, returns to the peace of his own fireside.
He entered Kelly's room with great dignity. Taking a position in the
center, he raised his arms horizontally, inhaled a deep breath, bowed
deeply, straightened up, exhaled, rose on his toes, descended, and
dropped his arms.
The massive Kelly viewed this athletic exhibition with interest.
"What's that exercise for?" he demanded.
Mr. Jones yawned. "It gives me relaxation from the strain," he answered.
"What strain? Where did you strain yourself?" asked Kelly with kindly
interest in his friend's welfare.
"The office responsibility," explained the stenographer. "It knocks
the sap out of a fellow." He lighted a cigarette.
"Oh, is that it?" Kelly gave a cruel laugh. "I thought you had sprung
something. If you do that exercise often, young fellow, you'll bust a
lung. Let's see you do it again," urged the bookkeeper, as if desirous
of witnessing the fulfillment of his prophecy.
Without fear, Mr. Jones laid aside his cigarette with care, and gulped
such a deep draught of air that he became red in the face and gave other
evidences of being about to burst from undue pneumatic pressure.
Kelly viewed with undisguised amusement the undeveloped protuberance
thrust forward in pride by the stenographer. "You haven't the chest
expansion of a lizard," he told him.
Mr. Jones received this deadly insult in the midst of deep bowing. He
exploded, and, leaning against a desk, breathed rapidly while the injured
look in his eyes attempted to carry that reproof which his speechlessness
otherwise forbade.
"If you do that exercise much," Kelly gloomily predicted, "you are
going to relax in a wooden box. Who gave you that stuff? You must have
been getting your ideas from the gymnasium of a bug house."
For obvious reasons Mr. Jones failed to reply.
"There is no sense in the thing. What you need is--" Kelly descended
from his perch and seizing him, only that instant recovered from
speechlessness, in his strong grasp, made exploratory investigations
with his fingers throughout the panting one's anatomy.
"Ouch," wailed the pained Mr. Jones.
"Shut up. Do you want the old man out here? I'm not going to hurt you.
I want to find out what ails you."
"Leggo, you are nearly killing me."
Mr. Jones rubbed himself ruefully when Kelly loosed him. "You big stiff,
ain't you got no sense, gouging around in a fellow's insides that way?
You are liable to put a man out of business," he protested.
Utterly indifferent to these complaints, Kelly was judging the
stenographer coldly and dispassionately. "You've got no bone.
You've got no muscle. You've got no fat." Kelly forgot that pride and
dignity are intangible assets. "You'd better take correct breathing
exercises or you'll get T. B.," he told him. "I shouldn't be
surprised if you've got it now."
Naturally, Mr. Jones was greatly alarmed and showed it.
"Here's the way to take a breathing exercise." Kelly slowly inhaled
a mighty volume of air until his chest arched forth in all of its
magnificent development. He held it so for a moment and beat upon it
resoundingly in accordance with the supposed custom of the orang-outang
in moments of victory. "No tuberculosis there," he boasted, after
exhaling with the rush of a gale of wind.
"That's some expansion, Kelly," the stenographer admitted, and he
continued as in excuse for his own physical deficiencies, "I should
take more exercise. My work is confining, and the strain is heavy. I'm
all run down. The old man must have noticed it, too, because the other
day he says to me, 'Mr. Jones, you're working too hard--it's telling
on you--I'd give you a good rest if I could manage to get along without
you.'"
Kelly burst into a roar of laughter. "If you wait for the old man to
give you a rest, my son, you are going to get tired, believe me. Cut
out the bluff for a minute. I want to talk seriously to you. You're
in rotten physical condition and you owe it to yourself to keep from
playing leading man at a funeral."
Mr. Jones's countenance registered horror.
Kelly went on. "I happen to know a darn sight more about physical
training than I do about book-keeping. I ought to--I spent enough time
around a college gymnasium when I should have been some place else."
Even Mr. Jones's alarm faded before this astounding information.
"College," he remarked in surprise.
"Sure," Kelly grinned, "I spent a couple of years in college. I'm
proud of them. I nearly flunked out before I learned that I leaned to
muscle instead of to literature." He returned to the subject under
discussion. "I can give you a bunch of exercises which will do you a
lot of good in six months if you are faithful. I'll give you gentle
exercises at first, darn gentle," he laughed, "otherwise you'll
snap something. I believe that I'll make a man out of you, young
grasshopper." He shook his head wearily. "Gosh, but it's going to take
a lot of work."
Mr. Jones flushed hotly. "Say," he said, "it's not necessary to
insult me, is it?"
"Yes, you've got to use a harpoon to get anything through that
rhinoceros' hide of egotism of yours." He fastened a stern and
foreboding eye upon Mr. Jones. "Do you want to die?" he inquired.
Mr. Jones sought the motive behind the startling question. "What's
going to kill me?" he demanded.
"Lack of air." Kelly's answer was obscure. It was too general. He
thought it necessary to restate it with modifying amendments. "The lack
of good fresh air," he concluded.
"Oh," said Mr. Jones, apparently much relieved at the distinction made.
"You want to get out into the air and breathe," Kelly explained as if
the stenographer were carelessly given to omit this function.
"I don't have the time." Mr. Jones visualized a dignified stroll over
a golf links.
Kelly gave thought to the difficulty. "A motorcycle would be the
thing," he decided.
The effect upon Mr. Jones would have been no different if Kelly had
prescribed an aeroplane or a submarine. "I can't ride a motorcycle,
and even if I could, where can I get one?" he objected.
"That's the point." Kelly was as enthusiastic as a life insurance
agent. "I have a friend who has one. He nearly killed himself on it and
now he is in the hospital. I'll bet that he is tired of it and will
sell it cheap."
"What do I want with the thing if it nearly killed him?" Mr. Jones
protested logically.
"Don't be a fool. The motorcycle never hurt him. He ran into an
automobile and hurt himself."
Mr. Jones believed the difference to be immaterial. "I won't ride a
motorcycle," he declared obstinately.
Kelly clung to his scheme with constructive pride. "It's up to you, my
friend," he argued. "You are going to die unless you get out into the
air. I suggest the way to do it."
"Yes, and I'll get killed on the blamed old motorcycle," predicted
Mr. Jones mournfully.
"Take your choice!" the generous Kelly invited. "I am going up to the
hospital to see that fellow after office hours. Why don't you come along
and meet him and then you can decide about the machine."
Mr. Jones, fearful that he might overlook an important engagement,
consulted a note-book with care. After concluding his investigation of
the records, he said, "Well, as I don't happen to have anything on,
I don't mind going up there with you, but you can write it in your
hat that I'm not strong for any motorcycle business."
Within a few moments after the prescribed closing hour, Obadiah's
official staff appeared upon the streets of South Ridgefield. Their
steps lead them towards the hospital and on the way they passed Mr.
Vivian's cool oasis of refreshment amidst the burning sands of the
town's business section.
Here, the confectioner and his assistants arrayed in pure white moved
gracefully about, serving the guests with cooling drink or, from time
to time, gave attention to the adjustment of the mechanical piano which
furnished melody for the lovers of music.
Mr. Jones feasted his eyes upon this scene of innocent revelry and good
fellowship. "Come on," he said to Kelly, "have a drink?"
Kelly received the invitation with insulting words. "That's your
trouble," he exclaimed in a voice which carried far. "That's what
makes your complexion so fierce."
The sensitive soul of Mr. Jones rebelled at this public outcry of his
physical defects. "Say, you big chump," he burst out, "don't you know
any better than to bawl a fellow out that way in a place where everybody
can hear you? That's a dickens of a thing to do."
"Come on. Nobody was listening." Kelly looked about as if disappointed
at failing to find an audience awaiting other personal allusions. "It's
the truth," he maintained vigorously.
Mr. Jones hesitated, torn as many another good man, between his vanity
and his appetite. Before his eyes flowed a tantalizing stream of those
delicacies so dear to his palate. In his pocket reposed two dimes, his
wealth until pay day on the morrow would replenish his purse. Why should
not a good fellow entertain his friends even though they resort to
personal comments? Rent by conflicting desires, he jingled the coins.
As he fingered them, there flashed the remembrance of the war tax. He
turned to Kelly and his voice was very sad, as he murmured, "I guess
that you're right, old man. We'll cut out the sweet stuff."
They had no difficulty in locating Joe Curtis. His sunny characteristics
had won him already wide spread friendships among the hospital staff,
so that the way to his bed was indicated as the path to a neighbor's
door.
Kelly grinned amiably at Miss Knight, and inquired, "May I speak to Joe
Curtis?"
The nurse looked at the big fellow with the appraising eye of a
connoisseur of men. "Sure," she retorted, "if you can talk and he
will give you a chance to."
The participants in this repartee were much pleased with its cleverness.
They laughed loudly.
Mr. Jones, considering the remarks frivolous, did not deign to unbend
from a stately poise assumed by him when in the presence of ladies.
Miss Knight was evidently a person of ordinary origin, lacking in
discrimination. She had failed to notice the stenographer, confining
her attentions, including her smiles, to the husky Kelly.
"Here's another friend, Joe," the nurse told the injured motorcyclist
when they arrived at his bedside. She failed to take account of Mr.
Jones who had progressed down the aisle with mien of great distinction.
His entrance was marred only by a remark of a vulgar patient who in a
coarse whisper desired to be advised, "Who let Charlie Chaplin in?"
much to the amusement of other low fellows.
"Hello, Joe, how's business?" asked Kelly.
"Fine, Mike, fine. Never better," responded the patient.
"Meet my friend, Mr. Percy Jones." The introduction was impaired as the
stenographer's attention was devoted to frowning down masculine giggles
reminiscent of the reference to the illustrious movie star.
That the social exigencies of the moment might not be overlooked, Kelly
dug a finger into the stenographer's side.
Mr. Jones undulated as to a measure of the Hula Hula. "Wough," he
yelled. "Wot cher doin'?"
Happy laughter arose from nearby beds.
Miss Knight swept her recumbent charges with a glance of stern
reproof. "Where's your manners?" she demanded. "Cut out this rough
stuff or--" she paused for effect and then launched this terrifying
threat--"you'll get no ice cream on Wednesday." The male surgical
cases quailed before this menace of cruel and unusual punishment.
Peace reigned.
"Gentlemen, be seated," invited Joe, in the rich and mellow tones of
an interlocutor.
Miss Knight departed. Mr. Jones sat down in the only chair and Kelly made
preparations to rest his huge form on the bed of the injured one.
Joe viewed this arrangement with alarm. "Don't you sit on my broken
leg, you hippopotamus," he protested.
Kelly withdrew so hastily that he nearly knocked Mr. Jones off his chair.
"Mike, go over there and get that other chair. Don't try to rob a
little fellow like Jonesy," Joe told him.
Pain swathed the features of Mr. Jones. To be publicly addressed as
"Jonesy" was bad enough, but when coupled with an insulting reference
to his size, it was too much.
Kelly finally seated himself by the invalid's head and remarked with
a smile of pleasure, "Joe, they tell me you're about dead. Is there
anything in it?"
"Listen to words of warning," suggested the injured man. "Even with my
game leg, it would take a bigger man than you to put me out of business."
Kelly disregarded the challenge. "Is there any truth in the report that
landing on your head is all that saved you?"
Joe grunted in disdain and Mr. Jones openly yawned at such commonplace
humor.
Regardless of popular displeasure, Kelly went on. "I understand that
your head ruined the truck?"
"Mike, you are a heavy kidder." Joe smiled affectionately at his big
friend. "Your conversation is usually agreeable, sometimes interesting,
but never reliable. You guessed wrong about a truck. I ran into a seven
passenger touring car."
"Ha, a chariot of the awful rich. In the excitement did you
surreptitiously abstract any diamonds, tires, gasoline or other
valuables shaken loose by your dome?"
"No such luck, Mike. There was only a girl in the car."
"The priceless jewel of the Isle of Swat and you did not kidnap it?"
exclaimed Kelly.
Mr. Jones displayed a superior interest. "Was she beautiful?" he
inquired.
"Was she beautiful?" mimicked Kelly. "She must have been. That's why
Joe tried to make a hit." He leaned over the motorcyclist. "For once I
am proud of you, young man. You used your head."
Mr. Jones displayed extreme animation. "By Jove," he laughed.
"Possibly the lady thought that Mr. Curtis was butting in."
Kelly inspected the stenographer with great intentness. "Good morning,
old top. When did you wake up?"
"Your kidding is contagious, Mike. Jonesy has caught it," chuckled Joe.
"No, you don't understand the nature of the brute. It's not me--it's
the ladies. Jones awakens at a reference to them and blossoms beneath
their smiles," explained Kelly.
A gentle look spread over Joe's face. "The girl I ran into happened
to be the right sort. She stuck by me when I was hurt and helped to bring
me here--" He paused for a moment and then continued, "Let's not talk
about her in this room full of men."
"Sure," boomed Kelly. "You're right as usual, Joe. Never stopped
to think myself." He turned and pointed to the stenographer. "My old
friend Jones is on the edge of a decline." The bookkeeper disregarded
the presence of the private secretary as if he were deaf. "If he starts
to slide he hasn't far to go to land in a cemetery."
Mr. Jones displayed no marked pleasure in the conversation. He maintained
a dignified aloofness.
"I have decided to train him," Kelly explained. "It's going to be
a hard job. He's got no bone. He's got no muscle. He's got no fat.
He's got nothin'."
Again Kelly overlooked the proud and sensitive spirit which protested
against this public dissection of physical defects.
The eyes of Kelly and Joe viewed the puny figure of the stenographer in
the manner of disgusted farmers examining a runt which resists their
efforts to fatten it.
"To get flesh and muscle and bone on him I must give him plenty of
exercise and get him out into the air. That will make him eat," Kelly
went on.
"His present diet is mostly cigarettes, isn't it?" Joe inquired.
"He eats them by the bale," confessed Kelly.
Apparently Joe deemed himself invited into the case as a consulting
specialist. "Make him cut them out," he prescribed. "Take the little
fellow out for a run every night and give him a good sweat out. Give him
a bath and a rub down and get him in bed by ten o'clock. Watch your
distances at first. Jonesy is full of dope. Look at his eyes."
Mr. Jones quailed under this keen scrutiny of experts.
"He'll fall dead if he runs a block," predicted Joe. "He'll be
able to cover some ground, though, after a couple of weeks of plugging.
You can speed him up, then." He studied the stenographer with impersonal
interest. "Make a feather weight boxer of him, Mike, if he isn't
yellow. Get him in shape for the fall meet of the Athletic Club. If he
can't box, make him run. He's built like a jack rabbit."
The course of treatment outlined by the consulting specialist filled
Mr. Jones with undisguised alarm. His mind and body alike protested
against the indignities which threatened him. To him came recognition
that immediate resistance was necessary to prevent the advent of a
gruelling course of physical training, repugnant to his flesh and
revolting to his soul. "S-s-s-say," he stammered in the intenseness of
his opposition, "I don't want----"
"Look here," Joe interrupted with fierceness, "you asked Mike to train
you, didn't you?"
Mr. Jones's mental anguish did not make for quick thinking. He worked
his lips but emitted no sound.
To Joe this silence acquiesced in his assumption and he went on, "You
begged him to train you and he finally consented. You have shown judgment
in selecting him--you couldn't find a better man. But, remember this,
my friend. Training is hard work. You are in for a rough time of it,
Jonesy, and don't you forget it. Remember this--it's not what you
want--it's what Mike wants that is going to count. He has undertaken the
devil's own job to make a man out of a shrimp like you. Do you get me?"
he concluded ferociously.
Before the sheer brute masculinity of the attack, the gentle courage of
Mr. Jones gave way. "Yes, sir," he agreed meekly.
"Now, that's all settled, Mike," Joe indicated with satisfaction.
"Jonesy knows where he gets off. How about the grub?"
"No trouble there," Kelly explained. "We board at the same place. The
food is plain enough and I can eat his dessert and make him fill up on
solid stuff. I wanted to ask about your motorcycle."
"You are welcome to use it, Mike. It will be fine to chase Jonesy on
or to get ahead of him if you want to time him. The machine was badly
smashed in my crash. There is a repair bill of seven dollars against it.
If you will pay that, you can use it until I need it again. Put Jones
up on it, too, if you like."
There was a rustling of skirts and the sound of soft footsteps. Virginia
came towards the young men. Mr. Jones and Kelly instantly recognized
their employer's daughter. They came to their feet as kitchen police
in the presence of the Commanding General, which is with the speed of
the lightning.
Virginia smiled sweetly at the invalid. "I am sorry to intrude," she
explained, "but the hospital closes to visitors in ten minutes; so I
had to come now or not see Joe today."
"It is fine of you to come even for a minute." Joe smiled happily and
then attempted to present Kelly and Mr. Jones to her.
She gave them a friendly smile. "I know you both. I have seen you in
my father's office so often that we are really old acquaintances."
Kelly looked her squarely in the eyes and beamed, "Thanks, I like that."
Mr. Jones assumed a manner containing all that was best from the several
books upon social usages he had perused. Often had he longed for an
opportunity to show t
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