Bonbright stopped in the library door, for he saw there not only his
father, whom he had expected to see, but his mother also. He had not
foreseen this. It made the thing harder to tell, for he realized in an
instant how his mother would receive the news. He wished he had been
less abrupt, but here he was and there could be no drawing back now.
His mother was first to see him.
"Bonbright..." she said, rising.
He walked to her and kissed her, not speaking.
"Where have you been? Your father and I have been terribly worried. Why
did you stay away like this, without giving us any word?"
"I'm sorry if I've worried you, mother," he said, but found himself
dumb when he tried to offer an explanation of his absence.
"You have worried us," said his father, sharply. "You had no business
to do such a thing. How were we to know something hadn't happened to
you--with the strike going on?"
"It was very inconsiderate," said his mother.
There fell a silence awkward for Bonbright. His parents were expecting
some explanation. He had come to give that explanation, but his
mother's presence complicated the situation, made it more difficult.
There had never been that close confidence between Mrs. Foote and
Bonbright which should exist between mother and son. He had never
before given much thought to his relations with her; had taken them as
a matter of course. He had not given to her that love which he had seen
manifested by other boys for their mothers, and which puzzled him. She
had never seemed to expect it of him. He had been accustomed to treat
her with grave respect and deference, for she was the sort of person
who seems to require and to be able to exact deference. She was a very
busy woman, busy with extra-family concerns. Servants had carried on
the affairs of the household. Nurses, governesses, and such
kittle-cattle had given to Bonbright their sort of substitute for
mother care. Not that Mrs. Foote had neglected her son--as neglect is
understood by many women of her class. She had seen to it rigidly that
his nurses and tutors were efficient. She had seen to it that he was
instructed as she desired, and his father desired, him to be
instructed. She had not neglected him in a material sense, but on that
highest and sweetest sense of pouring out her affection on him in
childhood, of giving him her companionship, of making her love compel
his love--there she had been neglectful.... But she was not a
demonstrative woman. Even when he was a baby she could not cuddle him
and wonder at him and regard him as the most wonderful thing in
creation.... She had never held him to her breast as God and nature
meant mothers to hold their babies. A mercenary breast had nourished
him.
So he grew up to admire her, perhaps; surely to stand in some awe of
her. She was his mother, and he felt vaguely that the relationship
demanded some affection from him. He had fancied that he was giving her
affection, but he was doing nothing of the sort.... His childish
troubles had been confided to servants. His babyish woes had been
comforted by servants. What genuine love he had been able to give had
been given to servants. She had not been the companion of his babyhood
as his father had failed to be the companion of his youth. ... So far
as the finer, the sweeter affairs of parenthood went, Bonbright had
been, and was, an orphan....
"Have you nothing to say?" his father demanded, and, when Bonbright
made no reply, continued: "Your mother and I have been unable to
understand your conduct. Even in our alarm we have been discussing your
action and your attitude. It is not one we expected from a son of
ours.... You have not filled our hopes and expectations. I, especially,
have been dissatisfied with you ever since you left college. You have
not behaved like a Foote.... You have made more trouble for me in these
few months than I made for my father in my life.... And yesterday--I
would be justified in taking extreme measures with you. Such an
outburst! You were disrespectful and impertinent. You were positively
REBELLIOUS. If I had not more important things to consider than my own
feelings you should have felt, more vigorously than you shall, my
displeasure. You dared to speak to me yesterday in a manner that would
warrant me in setting you wholly adrift until you came to your
senses.... But I shall not do that. Family considerations demand your
presence in our offices. You are to take my place and to carry on our
line.... This hasn't seemed to impress you. You have been childishly
selfish. You have thought only of yourself--of that thing you fancy is
your individuality. Rubbish! You're a Foote--and a Foote owes a duty to
himself and his family that should outweigh any personal desires.... I
don't understand you, my son. What more can you want than you have and
will have? Wealth, position, family? Yet for months you have been
sullen and restless-and then openly rebellious.... And worse, you have
been compromising yourself with a girl not of your class...."
"I could not believe my ears," said Mrs. Foote, coldly.
"However," said his father, "I shall overlook what has passed." Now
came the sop he had planned to throw to Bonbright.
"You have been in the office long enough to learn something of the
business, so I shall give you work of greater interest and
responsibility.... You say, ridiculously enough, that you have been a
rubber stamp. Common sense should have told you you were competent to
carry no great responsibilities at first.... But you shall take over a
part of my burden now.... However, one thing must come first. Before we
go any farther, your mother and I must have your promise that you will
discontinue whatever relations you have with this boarding-house
keeper's daughter, this companion of anarchists and disturbers."
"I have insisted upon THAT," said Mrs. Foote. "I will not tolerate such
an affair."
"There is no AFFAIR," said Bonbright, finding his voice. His young eyes
began to glow angrily. "What right have you to suppose such a
thing--just because Miss Frazer happens to be a stenographer and
because her mother keeps a boarder! Father insulted her yesterday. That
caused the trouble. I couldn't let it pass, even from him. I can't let
it pass from you, mother."
"Oh, undoubtedly she's worthy enough," said Mr. Foote, who had
exchanged a glance with his wife during Bonbright's outburst, as much
as to say, "There is a serious danger here."
"Worthy enough!" said Bonbright, anger now burning with white heat.
"But," said his father, "worthy or not worthy, we cannot have our son's
name linked in any way with a person of her class. It must stop, and
stop at once."
"That you must understand distinctly," said Mrs. Foote.
"Stop!" said Bonbright, hoarsely. "It sha'n't stop, now or ever. That's
what I came home to tell you.... I'm not a dumb beast, to be driven
where you want to drive me. I'm a human being. I have a right to make
my own friends and to live my own life.... I have a right to love where
I want to--and to marry the girl I love.... You tried to pick out a
wife for me.... Well, I've picked out my own. Whether you approve or
not doesn't change it. Nobody, nothing can change it.... I love Ruth
Frazer and I'm going to marry her. That's what I came home to tell you."
"What?" said his father, in a tone of one who listens to blasphemy.
Bonbright did not waver. He was strong enough now, strong in his anger
and in his love. "I am going to marry Ruth Frazer," he repeated.
"Nonsense!" said his mother.
"It is not nonsense, mother. I am a man. I have found the girl I love
and will always love. I intend to marry her. Where is there nonsense in
that?"
"Do you fancy I shall permit such a thing? Do you imagine for an
instant that I shall permit you to give me a daughter-in-law out of a
cheap boarding house? Do you think I shall submit to an affront like
that?... Why, I should be the laughingstock of the city."
"The city finds queer things to laugh at," said Bonbright.
"My son--" began Mr. Foote; but his wife silenced him. She had taken
command of the family ship. From this moment in this matter Bonbright
Foote VI did not figure. This was her affair. It touched her in a vital
spot. It threatened her with ridicule; it threatened to affect that
most precious of her possessions--the deference of the social world.
She knew how to protect herself, and would attend to the matter without
assistance.
"You will never see that girl again," she said, as though the saying of
it concluded the episode.
Bonbright was silent.
"You will promise me NOW that this disgraceful business is ended.
NOW.... I am waiting."
"Mother," said Bonbright, "you have no right to ask such a thing. Even
if I didn't love Ruth, I have pledged my word to her..."
Mrs. Foote uttered an exclamation indicative of her disgust.
"Pledged your word!... You're a silly boy, and this girl has schemed to
catch you and has caught you.... You don't flatter yourself that she
cares for you beyond your money and your position.... Those are the
things she had her eye on. Those are what she is trading herself
for.... It's scandalous. What does your pledged word count for in a
case like this?... Your pledged word to a scheming, plotting, mercenary
little wretch!"
"Mother," said Bonbright, in a strained, tense voice, "I don't want to
speak to you harshly. I don't want to say anything sharp or unkind to
you--but you mustn't repeat that.... You mustn't speak like that about
Ruth."
"I shall speak about her as I choose..."
"Georgia!..." said Mr. Foote, warningly.
"If you please, Bonbright." She put him back in his place. "_I_ will
settle this matter with our son--NOW."
"It is settled, mother," said Bonbright.
"Suppose you should be insane enough to marry her," said Mrs. Foote.
"Do you suppose I should tolerate her? Do you suppose I should admit
her to this house? Do you suppose your friends--people of your own
class--would receive her--or you?"
"Do you mean, mother," said Bonbright, his voice curiously quiet and
calm, "that you would not receive my wife here?"
"Exactly that. And I should make it my business to see that she was
received nowhere else.... And what would become of you? Everyone would
drop you. Your wife could never take your position, so you would have
to descend to her level. Society would have none of you."
"I fancy," said Bonbright, "that we could face even that--and live."
"More than that. I know I am speaking for your father when I say it. If
you persist in this we shall wash our hands of you utterly. You shall
be as if you were dead.... Think a moment what that means. You will not
have a penny. We shall not give you one penny. You have never worked.
And you would find yourself out in the world with a wife to support and
no means of supporting her. How long do you suppose she would stay with
you?... The moment she found she couldn't get what she had schemed for,
you would see the last of her.... Think of all that."
"I've thought of all that--except that Ruth would care for my money.
... Yesterday I left the office determined never to go into it again. I
made up my mind to look for a job--any job--that would give me a
living--and freedom from what Bonbright Foote, Incorporated, means to
me. I was ready to do that without Ruth.... But the family has some
claims to me. I could see that. So I came back. I was going to tell
father I would go ahead and do my best.... But not because I wanted to,
nor because I was afraid."
"You see," his mother said, bitingly, "it lasted a whole day with you."
"Mother!"
Bonbright turned to his father. "I am going to marry Ruth. That cannot
be changed. Nothing can alter it.... I am ready to come back to the
office--and be Bonbright Foote VII... and you can't guess what that
means. But I'll do it--because it seems to be the thing I ought to
do.... I'll come back if--and only if--you and mother change your minds
about Ruth.... She will be my wife as much as mother is your wife, and
you must treat her so. She must have your respect. You must receive her
as you would receive me... as you would have been glad to receive Hilda
Lightener. If you refuse--I'm through with you. I mean it.... You have
demanded a promise of me. Now you must give me your promise--to act to
Ruth as you should act toward my wife.... Unless you do the office and
the family have seen the last of me." He did not speak with heat or in
excitement, but very gravely, very determinedly. His father saw the
determination, and wavered.
"Georgia," he said, again.
"No," said Mrs. Foote.
"The Family--the business." said Mr. Foote, uncertainly.
"I'd see the business ended and the Family extinct before I would
tolerate that girl.... If Bonbright marries her he does it knowing how
I feel and how I shall act. She shall never step a foot in this house
while I live--nor afterward, if I can prevent it. Nor shall Bonbright."
"Is that final, mother?... Are you sure it is your final decision?"
"Absolutely," she said, her voice cold as steel.
"Very well," said Bonbright, and, turning, he walked steadily toward
the door.
"Where are you going?" his father said, taking an anxious step after
his son.
"I don't know," said Bonbright. "But I'm not coming back."
He passed through the door and disappeared, but his mother did not call
after him, did not relent and follow her only son to bring him back.
Her face was set, her lips a thin, white line.
"Let him go," she said. "He'll come back when he's eaten enough husks."
"He's GOT to come back.... We've got to stop this marriage. He's our
only son, Georgia--he's necessary to the Family. HIS son is necessary."
"And hers?" she asked, with bitter irony.
"Better hers than none," said Mr. Foote.
"You would give in.... Oh, I know you would. You haven't a thought
outside of Family. I wasn't born in your family, remember. I married
into it. I have my own rights in this matter, and, Family or no Family,
Bonbright, that girl shall never be received where I am received....
NEVER."
Mr. Foote walked to the window and looked out. He saw his son's tall
form pass down the walk and out into the street--going he did not know
where; to return he did not know when. He felt an ache in his heart
such as he had never felt before. He felt a yearning after his son such
as he had never known. In that moment of loss he perceived that
Bonbright was something more to him than Bonbright Foote VII--he was
flesh of his flesh and blood of his blood. The stifled, cramped, almost
eliminated human father that remained in him cried out after his son....