Chapter 2. A Cheerful Prodigal

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_ CHAPTER II. A CHEERFUL PRODIGAL

That which was the supreme tragedy to the broken girl in the cell merely afforded rather agreeable entertainment to her former fellows of the department store. Mary Turner throughout her term of service there had been without real intimates, so that now none was ready to mourn over her fate. Even the two room-mates had felt some slight offense, since they sensed the superiority of her, though vaguely. Now, they found a smug satisfaction in the fact of her disaster as emphasizing very pleasurably their own continuance in respectability.

As many a philosopher has observed, we secretly enjoy the misfortunes of others, particularly of our friends, since they are closest to us. Most persons hasten to deny this truth in its application to themselves. They do so either because from lack of clear understanding they are not quite honest with themselves, from lack of clear introspection, or because, as may be more easily believed, they are not quite honest in the assertion. As a matter of fact, we do find a singular satisfaction in the troubles of others. Contemplation of such suffering renders more striking the contrasted well-being of our own lot. We need the pains of others to serve as background for our joys--just as sin is essential as the background for any appreciation of virtue, even any knowledge of its existence.... So now, on the day of Mary Turner's trial, there was a subtle gaiety of gossipings to and fro through the store. The girl's plight was like a shuttlecock driven hither and yon by the battledores of many tongues. It was the first time in many years that one of the employees had been thus accused of theft. Shoplifters were so common as to be a stale topic. There was a refreshing novelty in this case, where one of themselves was the culprit. Her fellow workers chatted desultorily of her as they had opportunity, and complacently thanked their gods that they were not as she--with reason. Perhaps, a very few were kindly hearted enough to feel a touch of sympathy for this ruin of a life.

Of such was Smithson, a member of the executive staff, who did not hesitate to speak his mind, though none too forcibly. As for that, Smithson, while the possessor of a dignity nourished by years of floor-walking, was not given to the holding of vigorous opinions. Yet, his comment, meager as it was, stood wholly in Mary's favor. And he spoke with a certain authority, since he had given official attention to the girl.

Smithson stopped Sarah Edwards, Mr. Gilder's private secretary, as she was passing through one of the departments that morning, to ask her if the owner had yet reached his office.

"Been and gone," was the secretary's answer, with the terseness characteristic of her.

"Gone!" Smithson repeated, evidently somewhat disturbed by the information. "I particularly wanted to see him."

"He'll be back, all right," Sarah vouchsafed, amiably. "He went down-town, to the Court of General Sessions. The judge sent for him about the Mary Turner case."

"Oh, yes, I remember now," Smithson exclaimed. Then he added, with a trace of genuine feeling, "I hope the poor girl gets off. She was a nice girl--quite the lady, you know, Miss Edwards."

"No, I don't know," Sarah rejoined, a bit tartly. Truth to tell, the secretary was haunted by a grim suspicion that she herself was not quite the lady of her dreams, and never would be able to acquire the graces of the Vere De Vere. For Sarah, while a most efficient secretary, was not in her person of that slender elegance which always characterized her favorite heroines in the novels she affected. On the contrary, she was of a sort to have gratified Byron, who declared that a woman in her maturity should be plump. Now, she recalled with a twinge of envy that the accused girl had been of an aristocratic slimness of form. "Oh, did you know her?" she questioned, without any real interest.

Smithson answered with that bland stateliness of manner which was the fruit of floor-walking politeness.

"Well, I couldn't exactly say I knew her, and yet I might say, after a manner of speaking, that I did--to a certain extent. You see, they put her in my department when she first came here to work. She was a good saleswoman, as saleswomen go. For the matter of that," he added with a sudden access of energy, "she was the last girl in the world I'd take for a thief." He displayed some evidences of embarrassment over the honest feeling into which he had been betrayed, and made haste to recover his usual business manner, as he continued formally. "Will you please let me know when Mr. Gilder arrives? There are one or two little matters I wish to discuss with him."

"All right!" Sarah agreed briskly, and she hurried on toward the private office.

The secretary was barely seated at her desk when the violent opening of the door startled her, and, as she looked up, a cheery voice cried out:

"Hello, Dad!"

At the same moment, a young man entered, with an air of care-free assurance, his face radiant. But, as his glance went to the empty arm-chair at the desk, he halted abruptly, and his expression changed to one of disappointment.

"Not here!" he grumbled. Then, once again the smile was on his lips as his eyes fell on the secretary, who had now risen to her feet in a flutter of excitement.

"Why, Mr. Dick!" Sarah gasped.

"Hello, Sadie!" came the genial salutation. The young man advanced and shook hands with her warmly. "I'm home again. Where's Dad?"

Even as he asked the question, the quick sobering of his face bore witness to his disappointment over not finding his father in the office. For such was the relationship of the owner of the department store to this new arrival on the scene. And in the patent chagrin under which the son now labored was to be found a certain indication of character not to be disregarded. Unlike many a child, he really loved his father. The death of the mother years before had left him without other opportunity for affection in the home, since he had neither brother nor sister. He loved his father with a depth of feeling that made between the two a real camaraderie, despite great differences in temperament. In that simple and sincere regard which he bore for his father, the boy revealed a heart ready for love, willing to give of itself its best for the one beloved. Beyond that, as yet, there was little to be said of him with exactness. He was a spoiled child of fortune, if you wish to have it so. Certainly, he was only a drone in the world's hive. Thus far, he had enjoyed the good things of life, without ever doing aught to deserve them by contributing in return--save by his smiles and his genial air of happiness.

In the twenty-three years of his life, every gift that money could lavish had been his. If the sum total of benefit was small, at least there remained the consoling fact that the harm was even less. Luxury had not sapped the strength of him. He had not grown vicious, as have so many of his fellows among the sons of the rich. Some instinct held him aloof from the grosser vices. His were the trifling faults that had their origin chiefly in the joy of life, which manifest occasionally in riotous extravagancies, of a sort actually to harm none, however absurd and useless they may be.

So much one might see by a glance into the face. He was well groomed, of course; healthy, all a-tingle with vitality. And in the clear eyes, which avoided no man's gaze, nor sought any woman's unseemly, there showed a soul untainted, not yet developed, not yet debased. Through all his days, Dick Gilder had walked gladly, in the content that springs to the call of one possessed of a capacity for enjoyment; possessed, too, of every means for the gratification of desire. As yet, the man of him was unrevealed in its integrity. No test had been put upon him. The fires of suffering had not tried the dross of him. What real worth might lie under this sunny surface the future must determine. There showed now only this one significant fact: that, in the first moment of his return from journeyings abroad, he sought his father with all eagerness, and was sorely grieved because the meeting must still be delayed. It was a little thing, perhaps. Yet, it was capable of meaning much concerning the nature of the lad. It revealed surely a tender heart, one responsive to a pure love. And to one of his class, there are many forces ever present to atrophy such simple, wholesome power of loving. The ability to love cleanly and absolutely is the supreme virtue.

Sarah explained that Mr. Gilder had been called to the Court of General Sessions by the judge.

Dick interrupted her with a gust of laughter.

"What's Dad been doing now?" he demanded, his eyes twinkling. Then, a reminiscent grin shaped itself on his lips. "Remember the time that fresh cop arrested him for speeding? Wasn't he wild? I thought he would have the whole police force discharged." He smiled again. "The trouble is," he declared sedately, "that sort of thing requires practice. Now, when I'm arrested for speeding, I'm not in the least flustered--oh, not a little bit! But poor Dad! That one experience of his almost soured his whole life. It was near the death of him--also, of the city's finest."

By this time, the secretary had regained her usual poise, which had been somewhat disturbed by the irruption of the young man. Her round face shone delightedly as she regarded him. There was a maternal note of rebuke in her voice as she spoke:

"Why, we didn't expect you back for two or three months yet."

Once again, Dick laughed, with an infectious gaiety that brought a smile of response to the secretary's lips.

"Sadie," he explained confidentially, "don't you dare ever to let the old man know. He would be all swollen up. It's bad to let a parent swell up. But the truth is, Sadie, I got kind of homesick for Dad--yes, just that!" He spoke the words with a sort of shamefaced wonder. It is not easy for an Anglo-Saxon to confess the realities of affection in vital intimacies. He repeated the phrase in a curiously appreciative hesitation, as one astounded by his own emotion. "Yes, homesick for Dad!"

Then, to cover an excess of sincere feeling, he continued, with a burst of laughter:

"Besides, Sadie, I was broke."

The secretary sniffed.

"The cable would have handled that end of it, I guess," she said, succinctly.

There was no word of contradiction from Dick, who, from ample experience, knew that any demand for funds would have received answer from the father.

"But what is Dad doing in court?" he demanded.

Sarah explained the matter with her usual conciseness:

"One of the girls was arrested for stealing."

The nature of the son was shown then clearly in one of its best aspects. At once, he exhibited his instinct toward the quality of mercy, and, too, his trust in the father whom he loved, by his eager comment.

"And Dad went to court to get her out of the scrape. That's just like the old man!"

Sarah, however, showed no hint of enthusiasm. Her mind was ever of the prosaic sort, little prone to flights. In that prosaic quality, was to be found the explanation of her dependability as a private secretary. So, now, she merely made a terse statement.

"She was tried to-day, and convicted. The judge sent for Mr. Gilder to come down this morning and have a talk with him about the sentence."

There was no lessening of the expression of certainty on the young man's face. He loved his father, and he trusted where he loved.

"It will be all right," he declared, in a tone of entire conviction. "Dad's heart is as big as a barrel. He'll get her off."

Then, of a sudden, Dick gave a violent start. He added a convincing groan.

"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, dismally. There was shame in his voice. "I forgot all about it!"

The secretary regarded him with an expression of amazement.

"All about what?" she questioned.

Dick assumed an air vastly more confidential than at any time hitherto. He leaned toward the secretary's desk, and spoke with a new seriousness of manner:

"Sadie, have you any money? I'm broker My taxi' has been waiting outside all this time."

"Why, yes," the secretary said, cheerfully. "If you will----"

Dick was discreet enough to turn his attention to a picture on the wall opposite while Sarah went through those acrobatic performances obligatory on women who take no chances of losing money by carrying it in purses.

"There!" she called after a few panting seconds, and exhibited a flushed face.

Dick turned eagerly and seized the banknote offered him.

"Mighty much obliged, Sadie," he said, enthusiastically. "But I must run. Otherwise, this wouldn't be enough for the fare!" And, so saying, he darted out of the room. _

Read next: Chapter 3. Only Three Years

Read previous: Chapter 1. The Panel Of Light

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