Part 20 (1/2)

”I do not.”

”Do you mean to tell me that you were n't out with Mr. Brent last night before he came home?”

”I a.s.suredly was not with him after the first quarter of an hour.”

”Well, it 's hard to believe that he got that way by himself.”

”That way! Why, he left me at the door of Meyer's beer-garden to talk to a temperance crank who he thought was a character.”

”Well, no temperance character sent him rus.h.i.+ng and stumbling in here as he did last night. 'Character,' indeed! It was at the bottom of a pail of beer or something worse.”

”Oh, I don't think he was 'loaded.' He 's an author, and I guess his eye got to rolling in a fine frenzy, and he had to hurry home to keep it from rolling out of his head into the street.”

”Mr. Perkins, this is no subject for fun. I have seen what I have seen, and it was a most disgraceful spectacle. I take your word for it that you were not with Mr. Brent, but you need not try to go further and defend him.”

”I 'm not trying to defend him at all; it 's really none of my business.” And Perkins went off to work, a little bit angry and a good deal more bewildered. ”I thought he was a 'jay,'” he remarked.

To Brent the day was a miserable one. He did not leave his room, but spent the slow hours pacing back and forth in absorbed thought, interrupted now and then by vain attempts to read. His mind was in a state of despairing apprehension. It needed no prophetic sense to tell him what would happen. It was only a question of how long a time would elapse before he might expect to receive word from Dexter summoning him home. It all depended upon whether or not the ”California Pilgrim” got money enough last night for exploiting his disgraceful history to finish the last stage of the journey.

What disgusted the young man so intensely was that his father, after having led the life he had, should make capital out of relating it.

Would not a quiet repentance, if it were real, have been quite sufficient? He very much distrusted the sincerity of motive that made a man hold himself up as an example of reformed depravity, when the hope of gain was behind it all. The very charity which he had preached so fiercely to his congregation he could not extend to his own father.

Indeed, it appeared to him (although this may have been a trick of his distorted imagination) that the ”Pilgrim” had seemed to take a sort of pleasure in the record of his past, as though it were excellent to be bad, in order to have the pleasure of conversion. His lip involuntarily curled when he thought of conversion. He was disgusted with all men and principles. One man offends, and a whole system suffers. He felt a peculiar self-consciousness, a self-glorification in his own misery.

Placing the acc.u.mulated morality of his own life against the full-grown evil of his father's, it angered him to think that by the intervention of a seemingly slight quant.i.ty the results were made equal.

”What is the use of it all,” he asked himself, ”my struggle, involuntary though it was, my self-abnegation, my rigidity, when what little character I have built up is overshadowed by my father's past? Why should I have worked so hard and long for those rewards, real or fancied, the favour of G.o.d and the respect of men, when he, after a career of outrageous dissipation, by a simple act or claim of repentance wins the Deity's smile and is received into the arms of people with gus.h.i.+ng favour, while I am looked upon as the natural recipient of all his evil? Of course they tell us that there is more joy over the one lamb that is found than over the ninety and nine that went not astray; it puts rather a high premium on straying.” He laughed bitterly. ”With what I have behind me, is it worth being decent for the sake of decency?

After all, is the game worth the candle?”

He took up a little book which many times that morning he had been attempting to read. It was an edition of Matthew Arnold's poems, and one of the stanzas was marked. It was in ”Mycerinus.”

Oh, wherefore cheat our youth, if thus it be, Of one short joy, one l.u.s.t, one pleasant dream, Stringing vain words of powers we cannot see, Blind divinations of a will supreme?

Lost labour! when the circ.u.mambient gloom But holds, if G.o.ds, G.o.ds careless of our doom!

He laid the book down with a sigh. It seemed to fit his case.

It was not until the next morning, however, that his antic.i.p.ations were realised, and the telegraph messenger stopped at his door. The telegram was signed Eliphalet Hodges, and merely said, ”Come at once. You are needed.”

”Needed”! What could they ”need” of him? ”Wanted” would have been a better word,--”wanted” by the man who for sixteen years had forgotten that he had a son. He had already decided that he would not go, and was for the moment sorry that he had stayed where the telegram could reach him and stir his mind again into turmoil; but the struggle had already recommenced. Maybe his father was burdening his good old friends, and it was they who ”needed” him. Then it was his duty to go, but not for his father's sake. He would not even see his father. No, not that! He could not see him.

It ended by his getting his things together and taking the next train.

He was going, he told himself, to the relief of his guardian and his friend, and not because his father--his father!--wanted him. Did he deceive himself? Were there not, at the bottom of it all, the natural promptings of so close a relations.h.i.+p which not even cruelty, neglect, and degradation could wholly stifle?

He saw none of the scenes that had charmed his heart on the outward journey a few days before; for now his sight was either far ahead or entirely inward. When he reached Dexter, it was as if years had pa.s.sed since he left its smoky little station. Things did not look familiar to him as he went up the old street, because he saw them with new eyes.

Mr. Hodges must have been watching for him, for he opened the door before he reached it.

”Come in, Freddie,” he said in a low voice, tiptoeing back to his chair.

”I 've got great news fur you.”