Now, however, the regeneration of the city was far from his thought, and his sole concern was with the regeneration of a life, that of his son, which bade fair to be ruined by the wiles of a wicked woman.He was anxious for the coming of ****, to whom he would make one more appeal.If that should fail--well, he must use the influences at his command to secure the forcible parting of the adventuress from his son.
The room in which he paced to and fro was of a solid dignity, well fitted to serve as an environment for its owner.It was very large, and lofty.There was massiveness in the desk that stood opposite the hall door, near a window.This particular window itself was huge, high, jutting in octagonal, with leaded panes.In addition, there was a great fireplace set with tiles, around which was woodwork elaborately carved, the fruit of patient questing abroad.On the walls were hung some pieces of tapestry, where there were not bookcases.Over the octagonal window, too, such draperies fell in stately lines.Now, as the magnate paced back and forth, there was only a gentle light in the room, from a reading-lamp on his desk.The huge chandelier was unlighted....It was even as Gilder, in an increasing irritation over the delay, had thrown himself down on a couch which stood just a little way within an alcove, that he heard the outer door open and shut.He sprang up with an ejaculation of satisfaction.
"****, at last!" he muttered.
It was, in truth, the son.A moment later, he entered the room, and went at once to his father, who was standing waiting, facing the door.
"I'm awfully sorry I'm so late, Dad," he said simply.
"Where have you been?" the father demanded gravely.But there was great affection in the flash of his gray eyes as he scanned the young man's face, and the touch of the hand that he put on ****'s shoulder was very tender."With that woman again?"The boy's voice was disconsolate as he replied:
"No, father, not with her.She won't see me."The older man snorted a wrathful appreciation.
"Naturally!" he exclaimed with exceeding bitterness in the heavy voice."She's got all she wanted from you --my name!" He repeated the words with a grimace of exasperation: "My name!"There was a novel dignity in the son's tone as he spoke.
"It's mine, too, you know, sir," he said quietly.
The father was impressed of a sudden with the fact that, while this affair was of supreme import to himself, it was, after all, of still greater significance to his son.To himself, the chief concerns were of the worldly kind.To this boy, the vital thing was something deeper, something of the heart: for, however absurd his feeling, the truth remained that he loved the woman.Yes, it was the son's name that Mary Turner had taken, as well as that of his father.In the case of the son, she had taken not only his name, but his very life.Yes, it was, indeed, ****'s tragedy.
Whatever he, the father, might feel, the son was, after all, more affected.He must suffer more, must lose more, must pay more with happiness for his folly.
Gilder looked at his son with a strange, new respect, but he could not let the situation go without protest, protest of the most vehement.
"****," he cried, and his big voice was shaken a little by the force of his emotion; "boy, you are all I have in the world.You will have to free yourself from this woman somehow." He stood very erect, staring steadfastly out of his clear gray eyes into those of his son.His heavy face was rigid with feeling; the coarse mouth bent slightly in a smile of troubled fondness, as he added more softly: "You owe me that much."The son's eyes met his father's freely.There was respect in them, and affection, but there was something else, too, something the older man recognized as beyond his control.He spoke gravely, with a deliberate conviction.
"I owe something to her, too, Dad."
But Gilder would not let the statement go unchallenged.His heavy voice rang out rebukingly, overtoned with protest.
"What can you owe her?" he demanded indignantly."She tricked you into the marriage.Why, legally, it's not even that.
There's been nothing more than a wedding ceremony.The courts hold that that is only a part of the marriage actually.The fact that she doesn't receive you makes it ******r, too.It can be arranged.We must get you out of the scrape."He turned and went to the desk, as if to sit, but he was halted by his son's answer, given very gently, yet with a note of finality that to the father's ear rang like the crack of doom.
"I'm not sure that I want to get out of it, father."That was all, but those plain words summed the situation, made the issue a matter not of advice, but of the heart.
Gilder persisted, however, in trying to evade the integral fact of his son's feeling.Still he tried to fix the issue on the known unsavory reputation of the woman.
"You want to stay married to this jail-bird!" he stormed.
