THE SCALE ASCENDING
AS for Brant and the successive steps in his reformatory experiment
leading up to the good repute hinted at by Isabel’s praise, fortune,
good and ill, had befallen in this wise.
After the incident on the Denver journey and his instant recognition
by a chance brakeman on the train, he had steeled himself, looking for
similar embarrassments at every turn. But uphill paths are not always
rough or slippery throughout, and in proof of this the beginnings were
made easy for him. From the first he met no inopportune acquaintances,
and, again, the question of employment answered itself congenially
and promptly. Colonel Bowran needed a draughtsman; also, he happened
to hold Brant’s college in high repute, since its Professor of
Mathematics had been an alumnus of his own _alma mater_. This and that,
yoked together, ploughed Brant’s furrow for him; and two days after
his arrival in Denver he was perched upon a high stool in the chief
engineer’s office, giving himself mind and heart to the practice of a
profession which had once been an artistic passion with him.
A fortnight later Antrim came back, the acquaintance was renewed, and
Brant exchanged his room at the hotel for lodgings in the quiet private
house recommended by the chief clerk. For a few weeks the reincarnated
one went about his business circumspectly, spending his days at the
office and his evenings with a fresh gathering of books in his room
at Mrs. Seeley’s, and showing himself in the streets as little as
might be. This guarded walk brought its own reward. Not once in his
goings and comings did he see a familiar face out of the disregarded
underworld; and when the sense of security began to tread upon the
heels of continued immunity, he ventured to take another step and went
with Antrim to call upon the Langfords.
“They are nice people, and I am sure you’ll like them,” said the chief
clerk. “My father was the judge’s oldest friend back in Tennessee, and
our houses stood in the same acre. I’ve known them ever since I can
remember.”
Antrim signalled a North Denver car, and Brant ventured a single
question:
“Large family of them?”
“No; two girls and a boy. Dorothy’s good, but not pretty; Isabel is
pretty, but not--well, I’ll leave her out, and you can judge for
yourself. As for Will, he is another sort altogether. I call him an
unlicked cub.”
Twenty minutes later Antrim was introducing his friend in the double
drawing-room of the transplanted Southern mansion in the highlands.
“Mrs. Langford--my friend, Mr. Brant. Judge Langford, this is the
hermit I promised to bring you. Isabel, let me present Mr. Brant.
Dorothy----”
But the elder daughter was smiling her remembrance of him, and she
forestalled the introduction.
“I am so glad to be able to thank you in our own house, Mr. Brant,” she
said. “Mamma, this is the gentleman who was so kind to me on the night
of the wreck.”
That was the beginning of it; and Brant’s heart warmed within him
when he allowed himself to hope that something more beneficent than
chance had brought them together again. Later in the evening, however,
it cooled, till the former generous glow became a mere memory. The
chilling process began in a turn of the conversation which defined Mrs.
Langford’s attitude toward sin and sinners, and her point of view was
that of a mother of marriageable daughters. She had small charity for
sowers of wild oats, and was strongly in favour of a social code which
should embody a goodly measure of expiation. If every young man were
held strictly accountable--were given to understand that every misstep
would shut one or more respectable doors to him--the crop of wild oats
would grow smaller with every generation.
Brant went dumb before the suggested accusation, was ill at ease during
the remainder of the evening, and was much relieved when Antrim finally
gave the signal for departure. On the walk cityward (they had missed
the car) the chief clerk harked back to this discussion on culpability.
“I could hardly keep a straight face while Mrs. Langford was laying
down the law for us,” he chuckled. “She has a very dark-brown sheep in
her own household--though she would be the last person in the world to
admit it.”
“So? The son, I suppose.”
“Yes, Will. He is only nineteen, but I am afraid he has sounded the
pond pretty thoroughly. I haven’t kept track of him here in Denver,
partly because he has no use for a friend of the family, and partly
because I haven’t much use for him. But he promised to be a terror when
he was only a schoolboy back home, and I have no doubt he is keeping
the promise.”
“It’s a pity,” said Brant, thinking of the boy’s elder sister.
“It’s all of that. There is plenty of good blood in him on the Langford
side, but his mother was a Troop, and the Troops have had at least
one black sheep in every generation. But the father and mother are to
blame, too. They have had one standard for the daughters and another
for the son. Will has never known the meaning of obedience, and he has
never been required to do anything he didn’t want to do. Consequently
he is a hardened sinner at nineteen.”
“What is his particular weakness?”
“I’m not sure that he has any favourites. To the best of my knowledge
he is as impartial as a callow youth can well be. I’ve heard more about
his gambling than anything else, though.”
“Quiet games with amateurs? or the other kind?”
Antrim laughed. “The other kind, of course. Penny-ante in a parlour
wouldn’t be half tough enough to suit him.”
“That’s bad.”
“Yes; especially bad in his case. He is a surly young cub, as
vindictive as he is quarrelsome. Somebody will lay him out one of these
fine nights, and that will be the end of it.”
Brant held his peace for two whole squares; then he spoke his mind
freely as to a friend.
“It is none of my business, Antrim,” he began, “and I don’t know how
you stand with the family, but it is a thousand pities to let that boy
go to the devil without turning a hand to save him. I don’t half like
the way you put it.”
Antrim laughed again. “You must remember that while you’re hearing it
for the first time, it is an old story with me. Besides, I shouldn’t
have a ghost of a chance with him. He doesn’t like me, and I don’t like
him. If I should try to interfere I’d simply get myself into hot water
with all concerned.”
“Just the same, something ought to be done,” Brant insisted.
“I agree with you, but who is to do it? By Jove, I have an idea!
Suppose you try your hand. Mrs. Langford wouldn’t thank you a little
bit, because she would never admit the necessity; so far from it, she’d
probably write you down in her black book. But the judge knows, and
he’d be your friend for life.”
Brant smiled rather grimly at the thought of his becoming a bearwarden
for wayward youth, but he answered not a word; and presently their
arrival at Mrs. Seeley’s put an end to the talk. Contrary to his
custom, Brant did not read himself to sleep that night. In room of a
book he took a problem to bed with him, lying awake far into the small
hours to wrestle therewith. And the name of the problem was William
Langford.