Ruth Frazer had been working nearly two months for Malcolm Lightener,
and she liked the place. It had been a revelation to her following her
experience with Bonbright Foote, Incorporated. It INTERESTED her,
fascinated her. There was an atmosphere in the tremendous offices--a
tension, a SNAPPINESS, an alertness, an efficiency that made Bonbright
Foote, Incorporated, seem an anachronism; as belonging in an earlier,
more leisurely, less capable century. There was a spirit among the
workers totally lacking in her former place of employment; there was an
attitude in superiors, and most notable in Malcolm Lightener himself,
which was so different from that of Mr. Foote that it seemed
impossible. Foote held himself aloof from contacts with his help and
his business. Malcolm Lightener was everywhere, interested in
everything, mixing into everything. And though she perceived his
granite qualities, experienced his brusqueness, his gruffness, she, in
common with the office, felt for him something that was akin to
affection. He was the sort to draw forth loyalty.
Her first encounter with him occurred a couple of days after her
arrival in the office. She was interrupted in the transcription of a
letter by a stern voice behind her, saying:
"You're young Foote's anarchist, aren't you?"
She looked up frightened into the unsmiling eyes of Malcolm Lightener.
"Mr. Foote--got me my place here," she said, hesitatingly.
"Here--take this letter." And almost before she could snatch book and
pencil he was dictating, rapidly, dynamically. When Malcolm Lightener
dictated a letter he did it as though he were making a public speech,
with emphasis and gesture. "There," he said, "read it back to me."
She did, her voice unsteady.
"Spell isosceles," he demanded.
She managed the feat accurately.
"Uh!... That usually gets 'em.... Needn't transcribe that letter. Like
it here?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
She looked up at him, considering the matter. Why did she like it
there? "Because," she said, slowly, "it doesn't seem like just
a--a--big, grinding machine, and the people working here like wheels
and pulleys and little machines. It all feels ALIVE, and--and--we feel
like human beings."
"Huh!..." he grunted, and frowned down at her. "Brains," he said.
"Mighty good thing to have. Took brains to be able to think that--and
say it." He turned away, then said, suddenly, over his shoulder, "Got
any bombs in your desk?"
"Bombs!..."
"Because," he said, with no trace of a smile, "we don't allow little
girls to bring bombs in here.... If you see anything around that you
think needs an infernal machine set off under it, why, you come and
tell me. See?... Tell me before you explode anything--not after. You
anarchists are apt to get the cart before the horse."
"I'm not an anarchist, Mr. Lightener."
"Huh!... What are you, then?"
"I think--I'm sure I'm a Socialist."
"All of the same piece of cloth.... Mind, if you feel a bomb coming
on--see me about it." He walked away to stop by the desk of a mailing
clerk and enter into some kind of conversation with the boy.
Ruth looked after him in a sort of daze. Then she heard the girls about
her laughing.
"You've passed your examination, Miss Frazer," said the girl at the
next desk. "Everybody has to.... You never can tell what he's going to
do, but he's a dear. Don't let him scare you. If he thought he had he'd
be tickled to death--and then he'd find some way to show you you
needn't be at all."
"Oh!" said Ruth.
More than once she saw laboring men, machinists, men in greasy
overalls, with grimy hands and smeared faces, pass into Malcolm
Lightener's office, and come out with the Big Boss walking beside them,
talking in a familiar, gruff, interested way. She was startled
sometimes to hear such men address him by his first name--and to see no
lightning from heaven flash blastingly. She was positively startled
once when a machinist flatly contradicted Lightener in her hearing on
some matter pertaining to his work.
"That hain't the way at all," the man said, flatly. Ruth waited for the
explosion.
"Landers planned it that way." Landers was chief engineer in the plant,
drawing a princely salary.
"Landers is off his nut. He got it out of a book. I'm DOIN' it. I tell
you it won't work."
"Why?" Always Lightener had a WHY. He was constantly shooting it at
folks, and it behooved them to have a convincing answer. The machinist
had, and he set it forth at length and technically. Lightener listened.
"You win," he said, when the man was done. That was all.
More than once Ruth saw Hilda Lightener in the office. Usually the
girls in an office fancy they have a grudge against the fortunate
daughter of their employer. They are sure she snubs them, or is a snob,
or likes to show off her feathers before them. This was notably absent
in Hilda's case. She knew many by name and stopped to chat with them.
She was simple, pleasant, guiltless of pomp and circumstance in her
comings and goings.
"They say she's going to marry young Foote. The Foote company makes
axles for us," said Ruth's neighbor, and after that Ruth became more
interested in Hilda.
She liked Bonbright Foote and was sorry for him. Admitting the unwisdom
of his calls upon her, she had not the heart to forbid him, especially
that he had shown no signs of sentiment, or of stepping beyond the
boundary lines of simple friendship.... She saw to it that he and Dulac
did not meet.
As for Dulac--she had disciplined him for his outbreak as was the duty
of a self-respecting young woman, and had made him eat his piece of
humble pie. It had not affected her veneration for his work, nor her
admiration for the man and his sincerity and his ability.... She had
answered his question, and the answer had been yes, for she had come to
believe that she loved him....
She saw how tired he was looking. She perceived the discouragements
that weighed on him, and saw, as he refused to see, that the strike was
a failure in spite of his efforts. And she was sensible. The strike had
failed; nothing was to be gained by sustaining the ebbing remnants of
it, by making men and women and children suffer futilely. ... She would
have ended it and begun straight-way preparing a strike that would not
fail. But she did not say so to him. He HAD to fight. She saw that. She
saw, too, that it was not in him to admit defeat or to surrender. It
would be necessary to crush him first.
And then, at five o'clock, as she came out of the office she found
Bonbright Foote waiting for her in his car. It had never happened
before.
"I--I came for you," he said, awkwardly, yet with something of
tenseness in his voice.
"You shouldn't," she said, not unkindly. He would understand the
reasons.
"I had to," he said. "I--all day I've done nothing but wait to see you.
I've got to talk to you.... Please, now that I'm here, won't you get
in?"
She saw that something was wrong, that something out of the ordinary
had happened, and as she stepped into the car she shot a glance at his
set face and felt a wave of sympathy for him.
"I want you to--to have something to eat with me--out in the country. I
want to get away from town. Let me send a messenger to your mother. I
know you don't want to, and--and all that, but you'll come, won't you?"
Ruth considered. There was much to consider, but she knew he was an
honest, wholesome boy--and he was in trouble.
"This once," she said, and let him see her grin.
"Thank you," he said, simply.
It was but a short drive to an A. D. T. office, where Bonbright wrote a
message to Mrs. Frazer:
I'm taking your daughter to Apple Lake to dinner. I hope you won't
mind. And I promise to have her home safe and early.
A boy was dispatched with this, and Bonbright and Ruth drove out the
Avenue with the evening sun in their faces, toward distant, beautiful
Apple Lake. Bonbright drove in silence, his eyes on the road. Ruth was
alone in her appreciation of the loveliness of the waning day.
The messenger left on his bicycle, but had not gone farther than around
the first corner when a gentleman drew up beside him in an automobile.
"Hey, kid, I want to speak to you," said Mr. Rangar.
The boy stopped and the car stopped.
"You've got a message there that I'm interested in," said Rangar. "It
isn't sealed. I want a look at it." He held out a five-dollar bill. The
boy pocketed the bill and handed over the message, which Rangar read
and returned to him. Then Rangar drove to the office from which the boy
had come and dispatched a message of his own, one not covered by his
instructions from Mr. Foote. It was a private matter with him, inspired
by an incident of the morning having to do with a rumpled necktie and a
ruffled dignity. The malice which had glittered in his eyes then was
functioning now.
Rangar's message was to Dulac.
"Your girl's just gone to Apple Lake with young Foote in his car," it
said. That was all, but it seemed ample to Rangar.
Bonbright was not a reckless driver, but he drove rapidly this evening,
with a sort of driven eagerness. From, time to time Ruth turned and
glanced at his face and wondered what could have happened, for she had
never seen him like this before, even in his darkest moments. There was
a new element in his bearing, an element never there before.
Discouragement, apathy, she had seen, and bitterness. She had seen
wistfulness, hopelessness, chagrin, humiliation, but never until now
had she seen set determination, smoldering embers of rage. What, she
wondered, could this boy's father have done to him now?
Soon they were beyond the rim of industry which banded the city, and,
leaving behind them towering chimneys, smokeless for the night, clouds
of released working-men waiting their turns to crowd into overloaded
street cars, the grimy, busy belt line which extended in a great arc
through the body of the manufacturing strip, they passed through
sprouting, mushroomlike suburban villages--villages which had not been
there the year before, which would be indistinguishable from the city
itself the year after. Farther on they sped between huge-lettered
boards announcing the location of real-estate developments which as yet
consisted only of new cement sidewalks, immature trees promising future
shade, and innumerable stakes marking lot boundaries. Mile after mile
these extended, a testimonial to the faith of men in the growth of
their city.... And then came the country, guiltless of the odors of
gregarious humanity, of gasses, of smokes, of mankind itself, and of
the operations which were preparing its food. Authentic farms spread
about them; barns and farmhouses were dropped down at intervals;
everywhere was green quiet, softened, made to glow enticingly by the
sun's red disk about to dip behind the little hills.... All this Ruth
saw and loved. It was an unaccustomed sight, for she was tied to the
city. It altered her mood, softened her, made her more pliable.
Bonbright could have planned no better than to have driven her along
this road....
Presently they turned off at right angles, upon a country road shaded
by century-old maples--a road that meandered leisurely along, now
dipping into a valley created for agriculture, now climbing a hillside
rich with fruit trees; and now and then, from hilltop, or through gap
in the verdure, the gleam of quiet, rush-fringed lakes came to
Ruth--and touched her, touched her so that her heart was soft and her
lashes wet.... The whole was so placid, so free from turmoil, from
competition, from the tussling of business and the surging upward of
down-weighted classes. She was grateful to it.
Yet when, as she did now and then, she glanced at Bonbright, she felt
the contrast. All that was present in the landscape was absent from his
soul. There was no peace there, no placidity, but unrest, bitterness,
unhappiness--grimness. Yes, grimness. When the word came into her mind
she knew it was the one she had been searching for.... Why was he so
grim?
Presently they entered upon a road which ran low beside Apple Lake
itself, with tiny ripples lapping almost at the tire marks in the sand.
She looked, and breathed deeply and gladly. If she could only live on
such a spot!...
The club house was deserted save by the few servants, and Bonbright
gave directions that they should be served on the veranda. It was
almost the first word he had uttered since leaving the city. He led the
way to a table, from which they could sit and look out on the water.
"It's lovely," she said.
"I come here a good deal," he said, without explanation, but she
understood.
"If I were you, I'd LIVE here. Every day I would have the knowledge
that I was coming home to THIS in the evening.... You could. Why don't
you, I wonder?"
"I don't know. I can't remember a Foote who has ever lived in such a
place. If it hasn't been done in my family, of course I couldn't do it."
She pressed her lips together at the bitter note in his voice. It was
out of tune. "Have the ancestors been after you?" she asked. She often
spoke of the ancestors lightly and jokingly, which she saw he rather
liked.
"The whole lot have been riding me hard. And I'm a well-trained nag. I
never buck or balk.... I never did till to-day."
"To-day?"
"I bucked them off in a heap," he said, with no trace of humor. He was
dead serious. "I didn't know I could do it, but all of a sudden I was
plunging and rearing--and snorting, I expect.... And they were off."
"To stay?"
He dropped his eyes and fell silent. "Anyhow," he said, presently,
"it's a relief to be running free even for an hour."
"When they go to climb back why don't you buck some more? Now that
they're off--keep them off."
"It's not so easy. You see, I've been trained all my life to carry
them. You can't break off a thing like that in an instant. A priest
doesn't turn atheist in a night... and this Family Tradition business
is like a religion. It gets into your bones. You RESPECT it. You feel
it demanding things of you and you can't refuse.... I suppose there is
a duty."
"To yourself," she said, quickly.
"To THEM--and to the--the future.... But I bucked them off once. Maybe
they'll never ride so hard again, and maybe they'll try to break me by
riding harder.... Until to-day I never had a notion of fighting
back--but I'm going to give them a job of it now.... There are things I
WILL do. They sha'n't always have their way. Right now, Miss Frazer,
I've broken with the whole thing. They may be able to fetch me back. I
don't know.... Sometime I'll have to go. When father's through I'd have
to go, anyhow--to head the business."
"Your father ought to change the name of the business to Family Ghosts,
Incorporated," she said, with an attempt to lighten his seriousness.
"I'll be general manager--responsible to a board of directors from
across the Styx," he said, with an approach to a smile. "Here's our
waiter. I telephoned our order. Hope I've chosen to please you."
"Indeed you have," she replied. "I feel quite the aristocrat. I ought
not to do this sort of thing.... But I'm glad to do it once. I abhor
the rich," she said, laughing, "but some of the things they do and have
are mighty pleasant."
After a while she said: "If I were a rich man's wife I'd be something
more than a society gadabout. I'd insist on knowing his business... and
I'd make him do a lot of things for his workmen. Think of being a woman
and able to do so much for thousands of--of my class," she finished.
"Your class!" he said, sharply.
"I belong to the laboring class. First, because I was born into it,
and, second, because my heart is with it."
"Class doesn't touch you. It doesn't concern you. You're YOURSELF." For
the first time in her acquaintance with him he made her uneasy. His
eyes and the way he spoke those sentences disturbed her.
"Nonsense!" she said.
Neither spoke for some time. It was growing dark now, and lights were
glowing on the veranda. "When we're through," Bonbright said, "let's
walk down by the lake. There's a bully walk and a place to sit.... I
asked you to come because I wanted to take you there--miles away from
everybody...."
She was distinctly startled now, but helpless. She read storm signals,
but no harbor was at hand.
"We must be getting back," she said, lamely.
"It's not eight. We can go back in an hour.... Shall we walk down now?
I can't wait, Ruth, to say what I've got to say...."
It was impossible to hold back, futile to attempt escape. She knew now
why he had brought her and what he wanted to say, but she could not
prevent it.... If he must have his say let it be where he desired. Very
grave now, unhappy, her joy marred, she walked down the steps by his
side and along the shore of the lake. "Here," he said, presently,
drawing her into a nook occupied by a bench. She sat down obediently.
Was it fortunate or unfortunate that she did not know an automobile was
just turning into the lake road, a hired automobile, occupied by her
fiance, Dulac? Rangar's note had reached his hands and he had acted as
Rangar had hoped....