Bonbright entered his office with the sensations of a detected juvenile
culprit approaching an unavoidable reckoning. If there was a ray of
brightness in the whole episode it was that the newspapers had
miraculously been denied the meatiest bit of his night's adventure--his
detention in a cell. If that had been flaunted before the eyes of the
public Bonbright felt he would never have been able to face his father.
He was vividly aware of the stir his entrance caused among the office
employees. It was as though the heart of the office skipped a beat. He
flushed, and, with eyes straight before him, hurried into his own room
and sat in his chair. He experienced a quivering, electric
emptiness--his nerves crying out against an approaching climax. It was
blood-relative to panic.
Presently he was aware that his father stood in the door scrutinizing
him. Bonbright's eyes encountered his father's. They seemed to lock ...
In that tense moment the boy was curiously aware how perfectly his
father's physical presence stood for and expressed his theory of being.
Tall, unbending, slender, aristocratic, intellectual--the pose of the
body, the poise of the head, even that peculiar, slanting set of the
lips expressed perfectly the Bonbright Foote idea. Five generations had
bred him to be the perfect thing it desired.
"Well, sir," he said, coldly. Bonbright arose. There was a formality
about the situation which seemed to require it. "Good morning," he
said, in a low tone.
"I have seen the papers."
"Yes, sir."
"What they printed was in substance true?"
"I prefer not--to discuss it, sir."
"And _I_ prefer TO discuss it... Do you fancy you can drag the name of
Foote through the daily press as though it were that of some dancing
girl or political mountebank, and have no reference made of it? Tell me
exactly what happened last night--and why it was permitted to happen."
"Father--" Bonbright's voice was scarcely audible, yet it was alive and
quivering with pain. "I cannot talk to you about last night."
The older man's lips compressed. "You are a man grown--are supposed to
be a man grown. Must I cross-examine you as if you were a sulking
schoolboy?"
Bonbright was not defiant, not sulkily stubborn. His night's
experiences had affected, were affecting him, working far-reaching
changes in him, maturing him. But he was too close to them for their
effect to have been accomplished. The work was going on each moment,
each hour. He did not reply to his father immediately, but when he did
so it was with a certain decision, a firmness, a lack of the old
boyishness which was marked and distinct.
"You must not cross-question me. There are things about which one's own
father has not the right to ask.... If I could have come to you
voluntarily--but I could not. In college I have seen fellows get into
trouble, and the first thing they thought of was to go to their fathers
with it... It was queer. What happened last night happened to ME.
Possibly it will have some effect on my family and on the name of
Foote, as you say... But it happened to ME. Nobody else can understand
it. No one has the right to ask about it."
"It happened to YOU! Young man, you are the seventh Bonbright
Foote--member of a FAMILY. What happens to you happens to it. You
cannot separate yourself from it. You, as an individual, are not
important, but as Bonbright Foote VII you become important. Do you
imagine you can act and think as an entity distinct from Bonbright
Foote, Incorporated?... Nonsense. You are but one part of a whole; what
you do affects the whole, and you are responsible for it to the shops."
"A man must be responsible to himself," said Bonbright, fumbling to
express what was troubling his soul. "There are bigger things than
family..."
His father had advanced to the desk. Now he interrupted by bringing his
hand down upon it masterfully. "For you there is no bigger thing than
family. You have a strange idea. Where did you get it? Is this sort of
thing being taught in college to-day? I suppose you have some notion of
asserting your individuality. Bosh! Men in your position, born as you
have been born, have no right to individuality. Your individuality must
express the individuality of your family as mine has done, and as my
father's and HIS father's did before me... I insist that you explain
fully to me what occurred last night."
"I am sorry, sir, but I cannot."
There was no outburst of passion from the father; it would have been
wholly out of keeping with his character. Bonbright Foote VI was a
strong man in his way; he possessed force of character--even if that
force were merely a standardized, family-molded force of character. He
recognized a crisis in the affairs of the Foote family which must be
met wisely. He perceived that results could not be obtained through the
violent impact of will; that here was a dangerous condition which must
be cured--but not by seizing it and wrenching it into place... Perhaps
he could make Bonbright obey him, but if matters were as serious as
they seemed, it would be far from wise. The thing must be dealt with
patiently, firmly. Here was only a symptom; the disease went deeper.
For six generations one Bonbright Foote after another had been born
true to tradition's form--the seventh generation had gone askew! It
must be set right, remolded.
"Let me point out to you," said he, "that you are here only because you
are my son and the descendant of our forefathers. Aside from that you
have no right to consideration or to position. You possess wealth. You
are a personage... Suppose it were necessary to deprive you of these
things. Suppose, as I have the authority to do, I should send you out
of this office to earn your own living. Suppose, in short, I should
find it necessary to do as other fathers have done--to disown you...
What then? What could you do? What would your individuality be
worth?... Think it over, my son. In the meantime we will postpone this
matter until you revise your mood."
He turned abruptly and went into his own room. He wanted to consider.
He did not know how to conduct himself, nor how to handle this
distressing affair... He fancied he was acting wisely and
diplomatically, but at the same time he carried away with him the
unpleasant consciousness that victory lay for the moment with his son.
Individuality was briefly triumphant. One thing was clear to him--it
should not remain so. The Bonbright Foote tradition should be continued
correctly by his son. This was not so much a determination as a state
of mind. It was a thing of inevitability.
Bonbright's feeling as his father left him was one of utter
helplessness, of futility. He had received his father's unveiled threat
and later it would have its effect. For the moment it passed without
consideration. First in his mind was the fact that he did not know what
to do--did not even know what he WANTED to do. All he could see was the
groove he was in, the family groove. He did not like it, but he was not
sure he wanted to be out of it. His father had talked of individuality;
Bonbright did not know if he wanted to assert his individuality. He was
at sea. Unrest grappled with him blindly, urging him nowhere, seeming
merely to wrestle with him aimlessly and maliciously... What was it all
about, anyhow? Why was he mixed up in the struggle? Why could not he be
left alone in quiet? If he had owned a definite purpose, a definite
ambition, a describable desire, it would have been different, but he
had none. He was merely bitterly uncomfortable without the slightest
notion what event or course of action could bring him comfort.
One thought persisted through the chaos of his surging thoughts. He
must call in Ruth Frazer and explain to her that he had not done what
the papers said he did. Somehow he felt he owed her explanation, her of
all the world.
She entered in response to the button he pushed, but there was not the
broad smile--the grin--he looked up eagerly to see. She was grave,
rather more than grave--she was troubled, so troubled that she did not
raise her eyes to look at him, but took her seat opposite him and laid
her dictation book on the desk.
"Miss Frazer--" he said, and at his tone she looked at him. He seemed
very young to her, yet older than he had appeared before. Older he was,
with a tired, haggard look left by his sleepless night. She could not
restrain her heart from softening toward him, for he was such a
boy--just a boy.
"Miss Frazer," he said again, "I want to--talk to you about last
night--about what the papers said."
If he expected help from her he was disappointed. Her lips set visibly.
"It was not true--what they said... I sha'n't explain it to anybody
else. What good could it do? But I want you to understand. It seems as
if I HAVE to explain to you.... I can't have you believing--"
"I didn't read it in the papers," she said. "I heard from an eyewitness.
"Mr. Dulac," he said. "Yes, he would have seen. Even to him it might
have looked that way--it might. But I didn't--I didn't! You must
believe me. I did not run to the police to have them charge the
strikers again... Why should I?"
"Why should you?" she repeated, coldly.
"Let me tell you... I went there--out of curiosity, I guess. This whole
strike came so suddenly. I don't understand why strikes and troubles
like this must be, and I thought I might find out something if I went
and watched... I wasn't taking sides. I don't know who is right and who
is wrong. All I wanted was to learn. One thing... I don't blame the
strikers for throwing bricks. I could have thrown a brick at one of our
guards; a policeman shoved me and I could have thrown a brick at
him.... I suppose, if there are to be strikes and mobs who want to
destroy our property, that we must have guards and police... But they
shouldn't aggravate things. I went around where I could see--and I saw
the police charge. I saw them send their horses smashing into that
crowd--and I saw them draw back, leaving men on the pavement,... There
was one who writhed about and made horrible sounds!... The mob was
against us and the police were for us--but I couldn't stand it. I guess
I lost my head. I hadn't the least intention of doing what I did, or of
doing anything but watch... but I lost my head. I did rush up to the
police, Miss Frazer, and the strikers tried to mob me. I was struck
more than once... It wasn't to tell the police to charge. You must
believe me--you MUST.... I was afraid they WOULD charge again, so I
rushed at them. All I remember distinctly is shouting to them that they
mustn't do it again--mustn't charge into that defenseless mob.... It
was horrible." He paused, and shut his eyes as though to blot out a
picture painted on his mind. Then he spoke more calmly. "The police
didn't understand, either. They thought I belonged to the mob, and they
arrested me.... I slept--I spent the night in a cell in Police
Headquarters."
Ruth was leaning over the desk toward him, eyes wide, lips parted.
"Is--is that the TRUTH?" she asked; but as she asked she knew it was
so. Then: "I'm sorry--so sorry. You must let me tell Mr. Dulac and he
will tell the men. It would be terrible if they kept on believing what
they believe now. They think you are--"
"I know," he said, wearily. "It can't be helped. I don't know that it
matters. What they think about me is what--it is thought best for them
to think. I am supposed to be fighting the strike."
"But aren't you?"
"I suppose so. It's the job that's been assigned to me--but I'm doing
nothing. I'm of no consequence--just a stuffed figure."
"You caused the strike."
"I?" There was genuine surprise in his voice. "How?"
"With that placard."
"I suppose so," he said, slowly. "My name WAS signed to it, wasn't
it?... You see I had been indiscreet the night before. I had mingled
with the men and spoken to Mr. Dulac.... I had created a false
impression--which had to be torn up--by the roots."
"I don't understand, Mr. Foote."
"No," he said, "of course not.... Why should you? I don't understand
myself. I don't see why I shouldn't talk to Mr. Dulac or the men. I
don't see why I shouldn't try to find out about things. But it wasn't
considered right--was considered very wrong, and I was--disciplined.
Members of my family don't do those things. Mind, I'm not complaining.
I'm not criticizing father, for he may be right. Probably he IS right.
But he didn't understand. I wasn't siding with the men; I was just
trying to find out..."
"Do you mean," she asked, a bit breathlessly, "that you have done none
of these things of your own will--because you wanted to? I mean the
placard, and bringing in O'Hagan and his strike breakers, and taking
all these ruthless methods to break the strike?... Were you made to
APPEAR as though it was you--when it wasn't?"
"Don't YOU misunderstand me, Miss Frazer. You're on the other
side--with the men. I'm against them. I'm Bonbright Foote VII." There
was a trace of bitterness in his voice as he said it, and it did not
escape her attention. "I wasn't taking sides.... I wouldn't take sides
now--but apparently I must.... If strikes are necessary then I suppose
fellows in places like mine must fight them.... I don't know. I don't
see any other way.... But it doesn't seem right--that there should be
strikes. There must be a reason for them. Either our side does
something it shouldn't--and provokes them, or your side is unfair and
brings them on.... Or maybe both of us are to blame.... I wanted to
find out."
"I shall tell Mr. Dulac," she said. "I shall tell him EVERYTHING. The
men mustn't go on hating and despising you. Why, they ought to be sorry
for you!... Why do you endure it? Why don't you walk out of this place
and never enter it again?..."
"You don't understand," he said, with perplexity." I knew you would
think I am siding with the men."
"I don't think that--no!... You might come to side with us--because
we're right. But you're not siding with yourself. You're letting
somebody else operate your very soul--and that's a worse sin than
suicide.... You're letting your father and this business, this
Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, wipe you out as if you were a mark on a
slate--and make another mark in your place to suit its own plans. ...
You are being treated abominably."
"Miss Frazer, I guess neither of us understands this thing. You see
this business, for generations, has had a certain kind of man at the
head of it. Always. It has been a successful business. Maybe when
father, and his father, were young, they had to be disciplined as I am
being. Maybe it is RIGHT--what I have heard called TRAINING."
"Do you like it?"
He did not answer at once. "I--it disturbs me. It makes me uneasy. ...
But I can do nothing. They've got me in the groove, and I suppose I'll
move along it."
"If you would own up to it, you're unhappy. You're being made
miserable.... Why, you're being treated worse than the strikers--and by
your own father!... Everybody has a right to be himself."
"You say that, but father and the generations of Footes before him say
the exact opposite.... However, I'm not the question. All I wanted to
do was to explain to you about last night. You believe me?"
"Of course. And I shall tell--"
He shook his head. "I'd rather you didn't. Indeed, you mustn't. As long
as I am here I must stick by my family. Don't you see? I wanted YOU to
know. My explanation was for you alone."
Rangar appeared in the door--quietly as it was his wont to move.
"Pardon," he said. "Your father wishes to speak to you, Mr. Foote."
"One moment, Miss Frazer. I have some letters," Bonbright said, and
stepped into his father's office.
"Bonbright," said his father, "Rangar has just discovered that your
secretary--this Miss Frazer--lives in the same house with Dulac the
strike leader.... She comes of a family of disturbers herself. Probably
she is very useful to Dulac where she is. Therefore you will dismiss
her at once."
"But, father--"
"You will dismiss her at once--personally."
A second time that day the eyes of father and son locked.
Bonbright's face was colorless; he felt his lips tremble.
"At once," said his father, tapping his desk with his finger.
Bonbright's sensation was akin to that of falling through space--there
seemed nothing to cling to, nothing by which to sustain himself. How
utterly futile he was was borne in upon him! He could not resist.
Protestation would only humiliate him. He turned slowly and walked into
his own room, where he stood erect before his desk.
"Miss Frazer," he said in a level, timbreless voice, "the labor leader
Dulac lives in your house. You come of a family of labor agitators.
Therefore you are discharged."
"WHAT?" she exclaimed, the unexpectedness of it upsetting her poise.
"You are discharged," he repeated; and then, turning his back on her,
he walked to the window, where he stood tense, tortured by humiliation,
gazing down upon a street which he could not see.
Ruth gathered her book and pencils and stood up. She moved slowly to
the door without speaking, but there she stopped, turned, and looked at
Bonbright. There was neither dismay nor anger in her eyes--only
sympathy. But she did not speak it aloud. "Poor boy!" she whispered to
herself, and stepped out into the corridor.