A gust of fury swept the boy.He loved the woman, in spite of all; he respected her, even reverenced her.To hear her thus named moved him to a rage almost beyond his control.But he mastered himself.He remembered that the man who spoke loved him; he remembered, too, that the word of opprobrium was no more than the truth, however offensive it might be to his sensitiveness.He waited a moment until he could hold his voice even.Then his words were the sternest protest that could have been uttered, though they came from no exercise of thought, only out of the deeps of his heart.
"I'm very fond of her."
That was all.But the ****** sincerity of the saying griped the father's mood, as no argument could have done.There was a little silence.After all, what could meet such loving loyalty?
When at last he spoke, Gilder's voice was subdued, a little husky.
"Now, that you know?" he questioned.
There was no faltering in the answer.
"Now, that I know," **** said distinctly.Then abruptly, the young man spoke with the energy of perfect faith in the woman.
"Don't you see, father? Why, she is justified in a way, in her own mind anyhow, I mean.She was innocent when she was sent to prison.She feels that the world owes her----"But the older man would not permit the assertion to go uncontradicted.That reference to the woman's innocence was an arraignment of himself, for it had been he who sent her to the term of imprisonment.
"Don't talk to me about her innocence!" he said, and his voice was ominous."I suppose next you will argue that, because she's been clever enough to keep within the law, since she's got out of State Prison, she's not a criminal.But let me tell you--crime is crime, whether the law touches it in the particular case, or whether it doesn't."Gilder faced his son sternly for a moment, and then presently spoke again with deeper earnestness.
"There's only one course open to you, my boy.You must give this girl up."The son met his father's gaze with a level look in which there was no weakness.
"I've told you, Dad----" he began.
"You must, I tell you," the father insisted.Then he went on quickly, with a tone of utmost positiveness."If you don't, what are you going to do the day your wife is thrown into a patrol wagon and carried to Police Headquarters--for it's sure to happen? The cleverest of people make mistakes, and some day she'll make one."**** threw out his hands in a gesture of supreme denial.He was furious at this supposition that she would continue in her irregular practices.
But the father went on remorselessly.
"They will stand her up where the detectives will walk past her with masks on their faces.Her picture, of course, is already in the Rogues' Gallery, but they will take another.Yes, and the imprints of her fingers, and the measurements of her body."The son was writhing under the words.The woman of whom these things were said was the woman whom he loved.It was blasphemy to think of her in such case, subjected to the degradation of these processes.Yet, every word had in it the piercing, horrible sting of truth.His face whitened.He raised a supplicating hand.
"Father!"
"That's what they will do to your wife," Gilder went on harshly;"to the woman who bears your name and mine." There was a little pause, and the father stood rigid, menacing.The final question came rasping."What are you going to do about it?"**** went forward until he was close to his father.Then he spoke with profound conviction.
"It will never happen.She will go straight, Dad.That I know.
You would know it if you only knew her as I do."Gilder once again put his hand tenderly on his son's shoulder.
His voice was modulated to an unaccustomed mildness as he spoke.
"Be sensible, boy," he pleaded softly."Be sensible!"**** dropped down on the couch, and made his answer very gently, his eyes unseeing as he dwelt on the things he knew of the woman he loved.
"Why, Dad," he said, "she is young.She's just like a child in a hundred ways.She loves the trees and the grass and the flowers--and everything that's ****** and real! And as for her heart--" His voice was low and very tender: "Why, her heart is the biggest I've ever known.It's just overflowing with sweetness and kindness.I've seen her pick up a baby that had fallen in the street, and mother it in a way that--well, no one could do it as she did it, unless her soul was clean."The father was silent, a little awed.He made an effort to shake off the feeling, and spoke with a sneer.
"You heard what she said yesterday, and you still are such a fool as to think that."The answer of the son came with an immutable finality, the sublime faith of love.
"I don't think--I know!"
Gilder was in despair.What argument could avail him? He cried out sharply in desperation.
"Do you realize what you're doing? Don't go to smash, ****, just at the beginning of your life.Oh, I beg you, boy, stop! Put this girl out of your thoughts and start fresh."The reply was of the ******st, and it was the end of argument.
"Father," **** said, very gently, "I can't."There followed a little period of quiet between the two.The father, from his desk, stood facing his son, who thus denied him in all honesty because the heart so commanded.The son rested motionless and looked with unflinching eyes into his father's face.In the gaze of each was a great affection.
"You're all I have, my boy," the older man said at last.And now the big voice was a mildest whisper of love.
"Yes, Dad," came the answer--another whisper, since it is hard to voice the truth of feeling such as this."If I could avoid it, Iwouldn't hurt you for anything in the world.I'm sorry, Dad, awfully sorry----" He hesitated, then his voice rang out clearly.
There was in his tone, when he spoke again, a recognition of that loneliness which is the curse and the crown of being:
"But," he ended, "I must fight this out by myself--fight it out in my own way....And I'm going to do it!"
