After his visit to Deer Trail Farm Bruce found himself in a cynical
humor with reference to his own life and the lives of the people
with whom he had lately come in contact. Nothing was substantial or
definite. He read prodigiously--poetry and philosophy, and the latest
discussions of the problems of the time; caught in these an occasional
gleam. It seemed centuries ago that he had walked in the Valley of the
Shadow in France. The tragedy of war seemed as nothing weighed against
the tragedy of his own life.
Why had she told him? was a question he despairingly asked himself. His
mother had had no right to go out of the world leaving him to carry the
burden her confession had laid upon him. Then again, with a quickening
of his old affection for her, he felt that some motive, too fine and
high for his understanding, had impelled her to the revelation....
He had settled himself to read one evening when Henderson, always
unexpected in his manifestations of sociability, dropped in at his
apartment.
“Maybelle’s at Shep Mills’s rehearsing in a new Dramatic Club show,
so I romped up here hoping to catch you in. I guessed you’d be here
laughing heartily all to yourself. I’ve cut the booze; honest I have.
My bootlegger strolled in today, but I kissed him good-bye forever. So
don’t offer me any licker; my noble resolution isn’t so strong that I
mightn’t yield to a whisper from the devil.”
“You’re safe! There’s nothing stronger on the premises than a tooth
wash warranted not to remove the enamel.”
Henderson picked up the book Bruce had been reading, “A World in Need
of God,” and ran his eye over the chapter headings.
“‘The Unlit Lamp,’ ‘The Descent Perilous,’ ‘Untended Altars’--so you’ve
got it too, have you?”
“I’ve got the book, if that’s what you mean,” Bruce replied. “I paid
two dollars for it. It’s a gloomy work; no wonder the author put it out
anonymously.”
“It’s a best seller,” Henderson replied mournfully as he seated himself
and drew out his pipe. “The world is nervous about itself--doesn’t
know whether to repent and be good or stroll right along to the fiery
pit. Under my stoical exterior, Bruce, old boy, I trouble a good deal
about the silly human race. That phrase, ‘The Descent Perilous,’ gives
me a chill. If I’d edited that book I’d have made it ‘The Road to Hell
is Easy’ and drawn a stirring picture of the universe returning to
chaos to the music of jazzy bands. People seem anxious to be caught
all lit up when our little planet jumps the track and runs amuck. But
there really are a few imbeciles, like the chap who produced that book,
who’re troubled about the whole business. We all think we’re playing
comedy rôles, but if we’d just take a good square look at ourselves in
the mirror we’d see that we’re made up for tragedy.”
“Lordy! Hear the boy talk! If I’d known you were coming I’d have hidden
the book.”
“There’s a joke! I’ve been in several prosperous homes lately where
I got a glimpse of that joyous work stuck under the sofa pillows.
Everybody’s afraid to be caught with it--afraid it points to a state of
panic in the purchaser. It’s the kind of thing folks read and know it’s
all true, and get so low in their minds they pull the old black bottle
from its hiding place and seek alcoholic oblivion.”
“I bought the thing as a matter of business. If all creation’s going to
shoot the chutes I want to be prepared. It’s silly for me to get all
set to build houses for people if the world’s coming to an end.”
“By Jove, when the crash comes I’m going to be stuck with a lot of
Plantagenets!”
“But this chap thinks the world can be saved! He says in the mad rush
to find some joy in life we’re forgetting God. The spiritual spark
growing dim--all that sort of thing.”
“Um-m.” Henderson took the pipe from his mouth and peered into the
bowl. “Now on this spiritual dope, I’m a sinner--chock full of sin,
original and acquired. I haven’t been to church since my wedding except
to a couple of funerals--relations where I couldn’t dodge the last
sad rites. Cheerless, this death stuff; sort o’ brings you up with
a jerk when you think of it. Most of us these days are frantically
trying to forget man’s inevitable destiny by running as wild as we
dare--blindfolded. It isn’t fashionable to be serious about anything.
I tell you, my boy, I could count on the fingers of one hand all the
people I know who ever take a good square look at life.”
“Oh, not as bad as that!” said Bruce, surprised at Henderson’s unwonted
earnestness. “There must be a lot of people who are troubled about the
state of their souls--who have some sort of ideals but are ashamed to
haul them out!”
“Ashamed is the word!” Henderson affirmed. “We’re afraid of being
kidded if anybody sneaks up on us and catches us admiring the Ten
Commandments or practicing the Christian virtues! Now I know the rattle
of all the skeletons in all the closets in this town. If they all
took a notion to trot up and down our main thoroughfares some moonlit
evening they’d make quite a parade. You understand I’m not sitting in
judgment on my fellow man; I merely view him at times like this, when
I’m addressing a man of intellect like you, with a certain cheerful
detachment. And I see things going on--and I take part in them--that I
deplore. I swear I deplore them; particularly,” he went on with a grim
smile, “on days when I’m suffering from a severe case of hang-overitis.”
“You must have been on a roaring tear last night. You have all the
depressing symptoms.”
“A cruel injustice! I’m never terribly wicked. I drink more than I need
at times and I flirt occasionally to keep my hand in. Maybelle doesn’t
mind if I wander a little, but when she whistles I’m right back at my
own fireside pretending nothing happened.”
“I’ll wager you do!” laughed Bruce.
“Right now,” Henderson went on, “I can see a few people we both know
who are bound to come a cropper if they don’t mind their steps.
There’s Connie Mills. Not a bad sort, Connie, but a little bit too
afraid she isn’t having as much fun as she’s entitled to. And Shep--the
most high-minded, unselfish fellow I know--he, poor nut, just perishing
for somebody to love him!”
“What sort of a chap’s George Whitford?” Bruce asked.
“First class,” Bud answered promptly. “A real fellow; about the best
we’ve got. Something of the soldier of fortune about him. A variety of
talents; brilliant streak in him. Why do you ask? George getting on
your preserves?”
“Lord, no! I was just wondering whether you’d knock him. I like him
myself.”
“Well, nearly everyone does. He appeals to the imagination. Just a
little too keen about women, however, for his own good.”
A buzzer sounded and Bruce went to the telephone by which visitors
announced themselves from the hall below.
“Mr. Carroll? Certainly; come right up!”
“Carroll? Didn’t know you were so chummy with him,” Henderson grumbled,
not pleased by the interruption.
“I run into him at the club occasionally. He’s been threatening to drop
in some evening. Seems to be a nice chap.”
“Oh, yes, Carroll’s all right!” Bud grinned. “We might proceed with our
discussion of the Millses. Arthur ought to know a few merry facts not
disclosed to the general public. He wears the mask of meekness, but
that’s purely secretarial, so to speak.”
Carroll, having reached the apartment, at once began bantering
Henderson about the Plantagenet Bud had lately sold him.
“I’m another Plantag victim,” said Bruce. “Bud’s conscience is hurting
him; he’s moaning over the general depravity of the world.”
“He should worry!” said Carroll. “The Plantagenet’s shaken my faith in
Heaven.”