I
Franklin Mills stood by one of the broad windows in his private office
gazing across the smoky industrial district of his native city. With
his hands thrust into his trousers’ pockets, he was a picture of
negligent ease. His face was singularly free of the markings of time.
His thick, neatly trimmed hair with its even intermixture of white
added to his look of distinction. His business suit of dark blue with
an obscure green stripe was evidently a recent creation of his tailor,
and a wing collar with a neatly tied polka-dot cravat contributed
further to the impression he gave of a man who had a care for his
appearance. The gray eyes that looked out over the city narrowed
occasionally as some object roused his attention--a freight train
crawling on the outskirts or some disturbance in the street below. Then
he would resume his reverie as though enjoying his sense of immunity
from the fret and jar of the world about him.
_Bruce Storrs._ The name of the young man he had met at the Country
Club lingered disturbingly in his memory. He had heard someone ask
that night where Storrs came from, and Bud Henderson, his sponsor, had
been ready with the answer, “Laconia, Ohio.” Mills had been afraid to
ask the question himself. Long-closed doors swung open slowly along
the dim corridor of memory and phantom shapes emerged--among them a
figure Franklin Mills recognized as himself. Swiftly he computed the
number of years that had passed since, in his young manhood, he had
spent a summer in the pleasant little town, sent there by his father
to act as auditor of a manufacturing concern in which Franklin Mills
III for a time owned an interest. Marian Storrs was a lovely young
being--vivacious, daring, already indifferent to the man to whom she
had been married two years.... He had been a beast to take advantage
of her, to accept all that she had yielded to him with a completeness
and passion that touched him poignantly now as she lived again in his
memory.... Was this young man, Bruce Storrs, her son? He was a splendid
specimen, distinctly handsome, with the air of breeding that Mills
valued. He turned from the window and walked idly about the room, only
to return to his contemplation of the hazy distances.
The respect of his fellow man, one could see, meant much to him. He was
Franklin Mills, the fourth of the name in succession in the Mid-western
city, enjoying an unassailable social position and able to command more
cash at a given moment than any other man in the community. Nothing
was so precious to Franklin Mills as his peace of mind, and here was a
problem that might forever menace that peace. The hope that the young
man himself knew nothing did not abate the hateful, hideous question
... was he John Storrs’s son or his own? Surely Marian Storrs could not
have told the boy of that old episode....
Nearly every piece of property in the city’s original mile square had
at some time belonged to a Mills. The earlier men of the name had
been prominent in public affairs, but he had never been interested
in politics and he never served on those bothersome committees that
promote noble causes and pursue the public with subscription papers.
When Franklin Mills gave he gave liberally, but he preferred to make
his contributions unsolicited. It pleased him to be represented at the
State Fair with cattle and saddle horses from Deer Trail Farm. Like
his father and grandfather, he kept in touch with the soil, and his
farm, fifteen miles from his office, was a show place; his Jersey herd
enjoyed a wide reputation. The farm was as perfectly managed as his
house and office. Its carefully tended fields, his flocks and herds and
the dignified Southern Colonial house were but another advertisement of
his substantial character and the century-long identification of his
name with the State.
His private office was so furnished as to look as little as possible
like a place for the transaction of business. There were easy lounging
chairs, a long leathern couch, a bookcase, a taboret with cigars and
cigarettes. The flat-top desk, placed between two windows, contained
nothing but an immaculate blotter and a silver desk set that evidently
enjoyed frequent burnishing. It was possible for him to come and go
without traversing the other rooms of the suite. Visitors who passed
the office boy’s inspection and satisfied a prim stenographer that
their errands were not frivolous found themselves in communication
with Arthur Carroll, Mills’s secretary, a young man of thirty-five,
trained as a lawyer, who spoke for his employer in all matters not
demanding decisions of first importance. Carroll was not only Mills’s
confidential man of business, but when necessary he performed the
duties of social secretary. He was tactful, socially in demand as an
eligible bachelor, and endowed with a genius for collecting information
that greatly assisted Mills in keeping in touch with the affairs of the
community.
Mills glanced at his watch and turned to press a button in a plate on
the corner of his desk. Carroll appeared immediately.
“You said Shep was coming?” Mills inquired.
“Yes; he was to be here at five, but said he might be a little late.”
Mills nodded, asked a question about the survey of some land adjoining
Deer Trail Farm for which he was negotiating, and listened attentively
while Carroll described a discrepancy in the boundary lines.
“Is that all that stands in the way?” Mills asked.
“Well,” said Carroll, “Parsons shows signs of bucking. He’s thought of
reasons, sentimental ones, for not selling. He and his wife moved there
when they were first married and their children were all born on the
place.”
“Of course we have nothing to do with that,” remarked Mills, slipping
an ivory paper knife slowly through his fingers. “The old man is a
failure, and the whole place is badly run down. I really need it for
pasture.”
“Oh, he’ll sell! We just have to be a little patient,” Carroll replied.
“All right, but don’t close till the title’s cleared up. I don’t buy
law suits. Come in, Shep.”
Shepherd Mills had appeared at the door during this talk. His father
had merely glanced at him, and Shepherd waited, hat in hand, his
topcoat on his arm, till the discussion was ended.
“What’s that you’ve got there?” his father asked, seating himself in a
comfortable chair a little way from the desk.
In drawing some papers from the pocket of his overcoat, Shepherd
dropped his hat, picked it up and laid it on the desk. He was trying to
appear at ease, and replied that it was a contract calling for a large
order which the storage battery company had just made.
“We worked a good while to get that,” said the young man with a ring of
pride in his voice. “I thought you’d like to know it’s all settled.”
Mills put on his glasses, scanned the document with a practiced eye and
handed it back.
“That’s good. You’re running full capacity now?”
“Yes; we’ve got orders enough to keep us going full handed for several
months.”
The young man’s tone was eager; he was clearly anxious for his father’s
approval. He had expected a little more praise for his success in
getting the contract, but was trying to adjust himself to his father’s
calm acceptance of the matter. He drummed the edge of the desk as he
recited certain figures as to conditions at the plant. His father
disconcertingly corrected one of his statements.
“Yes; you’re right, father,” Shepherd stammered. “I got the July
figures mixed up with the June report.”
Mills smiled indulgently; took a cigarette from a silver box on the
taboret beside him and unhurriedly lighted it.
“You and Constance are coming over for dinner tonight?” he asked. “I
think Leila said she’d asked you.”
His senior’s very calmness seemed to add to Shepherd’s nervousness. He
rose and laid his overcoat on the couch, drew out his handkerchief and
wiped his forehead, remarking that it was warm for the season.
“I hadn’t noticed it,” his father remarked in the tone of one who is
indifferent to changes of temperature.
“There’s a little matter I’ve been wanting to speak to you about,”
Shepherd began. “I thought it would be better to mention it here--you
never like talking business at the house. If it’s going to be done it
ought to be started now, before the bad weather sets in.”
He paused, a little breathless, and Mills said, the least bit
impatiently:
“Do you mean that new unit at the plant? I thought we’d settled that.
I thought you were satisfied you could get along this winter with the
plant as it is.”
“Oh, no! It’s not that!” Shepherd hastily corrected. “Of course that’s
all settled. This is quite a different matter. I only want to suggest
it now so you can think it over. You see, our employees were all
mightily pleased because you let them have the use of the Milton farm.
There’s quite a settlement grown up around the plant and the Milton
land is so near they can walk to it. I’ve kept tab this summer and
about a hundred of the men go there Saturday afternoons and Sundays;
mostly married men who take their families. I could see it made a big
difference in the morale of the shop.”
He paused to watch the effect of his statements, but Mills made no
sign. He merely recrossed his legs, knocked the ash from his cigarette
and nodded for his son to go on.
“I want you to know I appreciate your letting me use the property
that way,” Shepherd resumed. “I was out there a good deal myself,
and those people certainly enjoyed themselves. Now what’s in my mind
is this, father”--he paused an instant and bent forward with boyish
eagerness--“I’ve heard you say you didn’t mean to sell any lots in the
Milton addition for several years--not until the street car line’s
extended--and I thought since the factory’s so close to the farm, we
might build some kind of a clubhouse the people could use the year
round. They can’t get any amusements without coming into town, and
we could build the house near the south gate of the property, where
our people could get to it easily. They could have dances and motion
pictures, and maybe a few lectures and some concerts, during the
winter. They’ll attend to all that themselves. Please understand that I
don’t mean this as a permanent thing. The clubhouse needn’t cost much,
so when you get ready to divide the farm the loss wouldn’t be great.
It might even be used in some way. I just wanted to mention it; we can
talk out the details after you’ve thought it over.”
In his anxiety to make himself clear Shepherd had stammered repeatedly.
He waited, his face flushed, his eyelids quivering, for some
encouraging word from his father. Mills dropped his cigarette into the
tray before he spoke.
“What would such a house cost, Shep?”
“It can be built for twenty thousand dollars. I got a young fellow in
Freeman’s office to make me some sketches--Storrs--you met him at the
country club; a mighty nice chap. If you’ll just look at these----”
Mills took the two letter sheets his son extended, one showing a floor
plan, the other a rough sketch of the proposed building, inspected them
indifferently and gave them back.
“If you’d like to keep them----” Shepherd began.
“No; that isn’t necessary. I think we can settle the matter now. It
was all right for those people to use the farm as a playground during
the summer, but this idea of building a house for them won’t do. We’ve
got to view these things practically, Shep. You’re letting your
sentimental feelings run away with you. If I let you go ahead with
that scheme, it would be unfair to all the other employers in town.
If you stop to think, you can see for yourself that for us to build
such a clubhouse would cause dissatisfaction among other concerns
I’m interested in. And there’s another thing. Your people have done
considerable damage--breaking down the shrubbery and young trees I’d
planted where I’d laid out the roads. I hadn’t spoken of this, for
I knew how much fun you got out of it, but as for spending twenty
thousand dollars for a clubhouse and turning the whole place over to
those people, it can’t be done!”
“Well, father, of course I can see your way of looking at it,” Shepherd
said with a crestfallen air. “I thought maybe, just for a few years----”
“That’s another point,” Mills interrupted. “You can’t give it to them
and then take it away. Such people are bound to be unreasonable. Give
them an inch and they take a mile. You’ll find as you grow older that
they have precious little appreciation of such kindnesses. Your heart’s
been playing tricks with your head. I tell you, my dear boy, there’s
nothing in it; positively nothing!”
Mills rose, struck his hands together smartly and laid them on his
son’s shoulders, looking down at him with smiling tolerance. Shepherd
was nervously fumbling Storrs’s sketches, and as his father stepped
back he hastily thrust them into his pocket.
“You may be right, father,” he said slowly, and with no trace of
resentment.
“Storrs, you said?” Mills inquired as he opened a cabinet door and took
out his hat and light overcoat. “Is he the young man Millie introduced
me to?”
“Yes; that tall, fine-looking chap; a Tech man; just moved here--friend
of Bud Henderson’s.”
“I wasn’t quite sure of the name. He’s an architect, is he?” asked
Mills as he slowly buttoned his coat.
“Yes; I met him at the Freemans’ and had him for lunch at the club.
Freeman is keen about him.”
“He’s rather an impressive-looking fellow,” Mills replied. “Expects to
live here, does he?”
“Yes. He has no relatives here; just thought the town offered a good
opening. His home was somewhere in Ohio, I think.”
“Yes; I believe I heard that,” Mills replied carelessly. “You have your
car with you?”
“Yes; the runabout. I’ll skip home and dress and drive over with
Connie. We’re going to the Claytons’ later.”
When they reached the street Shepherd ordered up his father’s limousine
and saw him into it, and waved his hand as it rolled away. As he turned
to seek his own car the smile faded from his face. It was not merely
that his father had refused to permit the building of the clubhouse,
but that the matter had been brushed aside quite as a parent rejects
some absurd proposal of an unreasoning child. He strode along with
the quick steps compelled by his short stature, smarting under what
he believed to be an injustice, and ashamed of himself for not having
combated the objections his father had raised. The loss of shrubs or
trees was nothing when weighed against the happiness of the people who
had enjoyed the use of the farm. He thought now of many things that he
might have said in defence of his proposition; but he had never been
able to hold his own in debate with his father. His face burned with
humiliation. He regretted that within an hour he was to see his father
again.