Bonbright was on his hands and knees on the edge of the lake, dizzily
slopping water on his head and face. He was struggling toward
consciousness, fighting dazedly for the power to act. As one who, in a
dream, reviews the events of another half-presented dream, he knew what
had happened. Consciousness had not fully deserted him. Dulac had
attacked him; Dulac had carried Ruth away.... Somehow he had no fears
for her personal safety, but he must follow. He must KNOW that she was
safe....
Not many minutes had passed since Dulac struck him down. His body was
strong, well trained to sustain shocks and to recover from them, thanks
to four years of college schooling in the man's game of football. Since
he left college he had retained the respect for his body which had been
taught him, and with golf and tennis and gymnasium he had kept himself
fit... so that now his vital forces marshaled themselves quickly to
fight his battle for him. Presently he raised himself to his feet and
stood swaying dizzily; with fingers that fumbled he tied his
handkerchief about his bruised head and staggered toward his car, for
his will urged him on to follow Dulac.
To crank the motor (for the self-starter had not yet arrived) was a
task of magnitude, but he accomplished it and pulled himself into the
seat. For a moment he lay upon the steering wheel, panting, fighting
back his weakness; then he thrust forward his control lever and the car
began to move. The motion, the kindly touch of the cool night air
against his head, stimulated him; he stepped on the gas pedal and the
car leaped forward as though eager for the pursuit.
Out into the main road he lurched, grimly clutching the steering wheel,
leaning on it for support, his aching, blurred eyes clinging to the
illuminated way before him, and he drove as he had never ventured to
drive before. Beating against his numbed brain was his will's
sledge-hammer demands for speed, and he obeyed recklessly....
Roadside objects flicked by, mile after mile was dropped behind, the
city's outskirts were being snatched closer and closer--and then he saw
the other car far ahead. All that remained to be asked of his car he
demanded now, and he overhauled the smaller, less speedy machine. Now
his lights played on its rear and his horn sounded a warning and a
demand. Dulac's car veered to the side to let him pass, and he lurched
by, only turning a brief, wavering glance upon the other machine to
assure himself that Ruth was there. He saw her in a flashing second, in
the tonneau, with Dulac by her side.... She was safe, uninjured. Then
Bonbright left them behind.
The road narrowed, with deep ditches on either hand. Here was the place
he sought. He set his brakes, shut off his power, and swung his car
diagonally across the way, so that it would be impossible for Dulac to
pass. Then he alighted, and stood waiting, holding on to his machine
for support.
The other car came to a stop and Dulac sprang out. Bonbright saw Ruth
rise to follow; heard Dulac say, roughly: "Get back. Stay where you
are."
"No," she replied, and stepped to the road.
Bonbright could see how pale she was, how frightened.
"Don't be afraid," he said to her. "Nothing is going to--happen."
He stood erect now, free from the support of the car, waiting for
Dulac, who approached menacingly.
"Dulac," he said, "I can't--fight you. I can't even---defend
myself--much.... Unless you insist."
The men were facing each other now, almost toe to toe. Dulac's face was
stormy with passion under scant restraint; Bonbright, though he swayed
a bit unsteadily, faced him with level eyes. Ruth saw the decent
courage of the boy and her fear for him made her clutch Dulac's sleeve.
The man shook her off.
"I know--why you attacked me," said Bonbright, slowly, "what you
thought.... I--stopped you to--be sure Miss Frazer was safe... and to
tell you you were--wrong.... Not that you have a--right to question me,
but nobody must think--ill of Miss Frazer.... No misunderstanding...."
"Get that car out of the way," said Dulac.
Bonbright shook his head. "Not till I'm--through," he said. "Then you
may--take Miss Frazer home.... But be kind to her--gentle.... I shall
ask her about it--and I sha'n't be--knocked out long."
"You threaten me, you pampered puppy!"
"Yes," said Bonbright, grimly, "exactly."
Dulac started to lift his arm, but Ruth caught it. "No.... No," she
said, in a tense whisper. "You mustn't. Can't you see how--hurt he is?
He can hardly stand.... You're not a COWARD...."
"Dulac," said Bonbright, "here's the truth: I took Miss Frazer to the
lake to--ask her to--marry me.... No other reason. She was--safe with
me--as with you. I want her for--my wife. Do you understand?... You
thought--what my father thought."
Ruth uttered a little cry. So THAT was what had happened!
"All the decency in the world," Bonbright said, "isn't in--union men,
workingmen.... Because I have more money than you--you want to
believe--anything of me.... You're even willing to--believe it of
her.... I can--love as well as if I were poor.... I can--honor and
respect the girl I want to marry as well as if I--carried a union
card.... That is TRUE."
Dulac laughed shortly; then, even in his rage, he became oratorical,
theatrical.
"We know the honor and respect of your kind.... We know what our
sisters and daughters have to expect from you. We've learned it. You
talk fair--you dangle your filthy money under their eyes--you promise
this and you promise that.... And then you throw away your toys....
They come back to us covered with disgrace, heart-broken, marked
forever, and fit to be no man's wife.... That's your respect and honor.
That's your decency.... Leave our women alone.... Go to your
bridge-playing, silly, husband-swapping society women. They know you.
They know what to expect from you--and get what they deserve. Leave our
women alone.... Leave this girl alone. We men have to endure enough at
your hands, but we won't endure this.... We'll do as I did to-night. I
thrashed you--"
"Like a coward, in the dark, from behind," said Bonbright, boyish pride
insisting upon offering its excuse. "I didn't stop you to argue about
capital and labor. I stopped you--to tell you the truth about to-night.
I've told it."
"You've lied the way your kind always lies."
Bonbright's lips straightened, his eyes hardened, and he leaned
forward. "I promised Miss Frazer nothing--should happen. It sha'n't.
... But you're a fool, Dulac. You know I'm telling the truth--but you
won't admit it--because you don't want to. Because I'm not on your
side, you won't admit it.... And that makes you a fool.... Be still.
You haven't hesitated to tell me I lied. I've taken that--and you'll
take what I have to say. It isn't much. I don't know much about
the--differences between your kind and my kind.... But your side gets
more harm than good from men like you. You're a blind fanatic. You cram
your men on lies and stir them up to hate us.... Maybe there's cause,
but you magnify it.... You won't see the truth. You won't see
reason.... You hold us apart. Maybe you're honest--fanatics usually
are, but fanatics are fools. It does no good to tell you so. I'm
wasting my breath.... Now take Miss Frazer home--and be careful how you
treat her."
He turned his back squarely and pulled himself into his car. Then he
turned to Ruth. "Good night, Miss Frazer," he said. "I am sorry--for
all this.... May I come for--your answer to-morrow?"
"No...." she said, tremulously. "Yes...."
Bonbright straightened his car in the road and drove on. He was at the
end of his strength. He wanted the aid of a physician, and then he
wanted to lie down and sleep, and sleep. The day that had preceded the
attack upon him had been wearing enough to exhaust the sturdiest. The
tension of waiting, the anxiety, the mental disturbance, had demanded
their usual wages of mind and body. Sudden shock had done the rest.
He drove to the private hospital of a doctor of his acquaintance, a
member of his club, and gained admission. The doctor himself was there,
by good fortune, and saw Bonbright at once, and examined the wounds in
his scalp.
"Strikers get you?" he asked.
"Automobile mix-up," said Bonbright, weakly.
"Uh-huh!" said the doctor. "I suppose somebody picked up a light
roadster and struck you over the head with it.... Not cut much. No
stitches. A little adhesive'll do the trick--and then.... Sort of
excited, eh? Been under a bit of a strain?... None of my business, of
course.... Get into bed and I'll send up something to tone you down and
make you sleep. You've been playing in too high a key--your fiddle
strings are too tight."
Getting into that cool, soft bed was one of the pleasantest experiences
of Bonbright's life. He was almost instantly asleep--and he still
slept, even at the deliberate hour that saw his father enter the office
at the mills.
Mr. Foote was disturbed. He had not seen his son since the boy flung
out of the office the morning before; had had no word of him. He had
expected Bonbright to come home in the evening and had waited for him
in the library to have a word with him. He had come to the conclusion
that it would be best to throw some sort of sop to Bonbright in the way
of apparent authority, of mock responsibility. It would occupy the
boy's mind, he thought, while in no way altering the conditions, not
affecting the end to be arrived at. Bonbright must be held.... If it
were necessary to administer an anaesthetic while the operation of
remaking him into a true Foote was performed, why, the anaesthetic
would be forthcoming.
But Bonbright did not come, even with twelve strokes of the clock. His
father retired, but in no refreshing sleep.... On that day no progress
had been made with the Marquis Lafayette. That work required a calm
that Mr. Foote could not master.
His first act after seating himself at his desk was to summon Rangar.
"My son was not at home last night," he said. "I have not seen him
since yesterday morning. I hope you can give me an account of him."
"Not home last night, Mr. Foote!" Manifestly Rangar was startled. He
had not been at ease before, for he had been unable to pick up any
trace of the boy this morning; had not seen him return home the night
before.... It might be that he had gone too far when he sent his
anonymous note to Dulac. Dulac had gone in pursuit, of that he had made
sure. But what had happened? Had the matter gone farther than the mere
thrashing he had hoped for?... He was frightened.
"I directed you to keep him under your eye."
"Your directions were followed, Mr. Foote, so far as was possible. I
know where he was yesterday, and where he went last night, but when a
young man is running around the country in an automobile with a girl,
it's mighty hard to keep at his heels. He was with that girl."
"When?... What happened?"
"He waited for her at the Lightener plant. She works there now. They
drove out the Avenue together--some place into the country. Mr.
Bonbright is a member of the Apple Lake Club, and I was sure they were
going there.... That's the last I know."
"Telephone the Apple Lake Club. See if he was there and when he left."
Rangar retired to do so, and returned presently to report that
Bonbright and a young lady had dined there, but had not been seen after
they left the table. Nobody could say when they went away from the club.
"Call Malcolm Lightener--at his office. Once the boy stayed at his
house."
Rangar made the call, and, not able to repress the malice that was in
him, went some steps beyond his directions. Mr. Lightener was on the
wire.
"This is Rangar, Mr. Lightener--Bonbright Foote, Incorporated. Mr.
Foote wished me to inquire if you had seen Mr. Bonbright between six
o'clock last night and this morning."
"No.... Why does he ask me? What's the matter?"
"Mr. Foote says Bonbright stayed with you one night, and thought he
might have done so again. Mr. Foote is worried, sir. The young man
has--er--vanished, so to speak. He was seen last at your plant about
five o'clock. In his automobile, Mr. Lightener. He was waiting for a
young woman who works for you--a Miss Frazer, I understand. Used to be
his secretary. They drove away together, and he hasn't been seen
since.... Mr. Foote has feared some sort of--er--understanding between
them."
"Huh!" grunted Lightener. "Don't know anything about it. Tell Foote to
look after his own son... if he knows how." Then the receiver clicked.
Lightener swung away from the telephone and scowled at the wall. "He
don't look it," he said, presently, "and I'm darned if SHE does....
Huh!..." He pressed a button. "Send in Miss Frazer," he said to the boy
who answered the buzzer.
In a moment Ruth stood in the door. He let her stand while he
scrutinized her briefly. She looked ill. Her eyes were dull and marked
by surrounding darkness. She had no color. He shook his head Like a
displeased lion.
"Miss Frazer," he said, gruffly, "I make it a practice always to mind
my own business except when there's some reason for not minding
it--which is frequent."
"Yes, sir," she said, as he paused.
"Yes, sir.... Yes, sir. What do YOU know about it? Come in and shut the
door. Come over here where I can look at you. What's the matter? Ill?
If you're sick what are you doing here? Home's the place for you."
"I'm not ill, Mr. Lightener."
"Huh!... I liked your looks--like 'em yet. Like everybody's looks who
works here, or I wouldn't have 'em.... You're all right, I'll bet a
dollar--all RIGHT.... You know young Foote got you your job here?"
He saw the sudden intake of her breath as Bonbright's name was
mentioned. "Yes," she said, faintly.
"What about him?... Know him well? LIKE HIM?"
"I--I know him quite well, Mr. Lightener. Yes, I--like him."
"Trust him?"
She looked at him a moment before replying; then her chin lifted a
trifle and there came a glint into her eyes. "Absolutely," she said.
"Um!... Good enough. So do I.... Enough to let him play around with my
daughter.... Has he anything to do with the way you look to-day?... Not
a fair question--yet. You needn't answer."
"I shouldn't," she said, and he smiled at the asperity of her tone.
"Mr. Bonbright Foote seems to be causing his family anxiety," he said.
"He's disappeared.... I guess they think you carried him off. Did you
go somewhere with him in his car last night?"
"You have no right to question me, Mr. Lightener."
"Don't I know it? I tell you I like you and I like him--and I think his
father's a stiff-backed, circumstantial, ancestor-ridden damn fool....
Something's happened or Foote wouldn't be telephoning around. He's got
reason to be frightened, and good and frightened. ... A girl,
especially a girl in your place, hasn't any business being mixed up in
any mess, much less with a young millionaire.... That's why I'm not
minding my own business. You work for me, don't you--and ain't I
responsible for you, sort of? Well, then? Were you with Bonbright last
night?"
"Yes, sir."
"Huh!... Something happened, didn't it?" "Nothing that--Mr. Foote had
anything to do with--"
"But something happened. What?"
"I can't tell you, Mr. Lightener."
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know."
"When did you see him last?"
"A little after nine o'clock last night."
"Where?"
"Going toward home--I thought."
"He didn't go there. Where else would he go?"
"I don't--know." Her voice broke, her self-control was deserting her.
"Hey!... Hold on there. No hysterics or anything. Won't have 'em. Brace
up."
"Let me alone, then," she said, childishly. "Why can't you let me
alone?"
"I--Confound it! I'm not deviling you. I'm trying to haul you out of a
muss. Quit it, will you?" She had sunk into a chair and covered her
face. He got up and stood over her, scowling. "Will you stop it? Hear
me? Stop it, I tell you'... What's the matter--anyhow? If Bonbright
Foote's done anything to you he hadn't ought to I'll skin him alive."
The door opened and Hilda Lightener tripped into the room. "Hello,
dad!" she said. "Surprise.... I want to--" She stopped to look at her
father, and then at Ruth, crouched in her chair. "What's the matter,
dad?" Hilda asked. "You haven't been scaring this little girl? If you
have--" She paused threateningly.
"Oh, the devil!... I'll get out. You see if you can make her stop it.
Cuddle her, or something. I've done a sweet job of it.... Miss Frazer,
this is my daughter. Er--I'm going away from here." And he went,
precipitately.
There was a brief silence; then Hilda laid her hand on Ruth's head.
"What's dad been doing to you?" she asked. "Scare you? His bark's a
heap sight worse than his bite."
"He--he's good," said Ruth, tearfully. "He was trying to be good to
me.... I'm just upset--that's all. I'll be--all right in a moment." But
she was not all right in a moment. Her sobs increased. The strain, the
anxiety, a sleepless night of suffering--and the struggle she had
undergone to find the answer to Bonbright's question--had tried her to
the depths of her soul. Now she gave quite away and, unwillingly
enough, sobbed and mumbled on Hilda Lightener's shoulder, and clung to
the larger girl pitifully, as a frightened baby clings to its mother.
Hilda's face grew sober, her eyes darkened, as, among Ruth's broken,
fragmentary, choking words, she heard the name of Bonbright Foote. But
her arm did not withdraw from about Ruth's shoulders, nor did the
sympathy in her kind voice lessen.... Most remarkable of all, she did
not give way to a very natural curiosity. She asked no question.
After a time Ruth grew quieter, calmer.
"I'll tell you what you need," said Hilda. "It's to get away from here.
My electric's downstairs. I'm going to take you away from father. We'll
drive around a bit, and then I'll run you home.... You're all aquiver."
She went out, closing the door after her. Her father was pacing
uneasily up and down the alley between the desks, and she motioned to
him.
"She's better now. I'm going to take her home.... Dad, she was
muttering about Bonbright. What's he got to do with this?"
"I don't know, honey. Nothing--nothing ROTTEN.... It isn't in him--nor
HER."
Hilda nodded.
"Bonbright seems to have disappeared," her father said.
"DISAPPEARED?"
"His father's hunting for him, anyhow. Hasn't been home all night."
"I don't blame him," said Hilda, with a flash in her eyes. "But what's
this girl got to do with it?"
"I wish you'd find out. I was trying to--and that blew up the house."
"I'll try nothing of the kind," she said. "Of course, if she WANTS to
tell me, and DOES tell me, I'll listen.... But I won't tell you. You
run your old factory and keep out of such things. You just MESS them."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, with mock submissiveness, "it looks like I do
just that."
Hilda went back into the room, and presently she and Ruth emerged and
went out of the building. That day began their acquaintance, which was
to expand into a friendship very precious to both of them--and one day
to be the rod and staff that sustained Ruth and kept her from despair.