FATHER AND SON
"Mother!"
Adrian's cry was a gasp. He could not believe that he had heard
aright; but he felt himself pulled down into his chair and realized
that though his spiritual world had been turned upside down, as it
were, this extraordinary dinner must go on. There was only one fact
for which to rejoice, a trivial one: he had been placed so that he
could look directly into that palm-decked alcove and upon this
convict, Number 526.
Convict! Impossible. The fine head was not debased by the
close-cropped hair, and held itself erect as one upon which no shadow
of guilt or disgrace had ever rested. The face was noble, despite its
lines and the prison pallor; and though hard labor had bowed the once
stalwart shoulders, they neither slouched nor shrunk together as did
those of the other poor men in that group.
"Adrian! Remember where you are."
Even the bouillon choked him and the fish was as ashes in his mouth.
Courses came on and were removed, and he tasted each mechanically,
prodded to this duty by his mother's active elbow. Her tact and
volubility covered his silence, though there was nobody at that table,
save herself, who did not mentally set the lad down as an ignorant,
ill-bred person, oddly unlike the others of his family. Handsome? Oh!
yes. His appearance was quite correct and even noticeable, but if a
man were too stupid to open his mouth, save to put food into it, his
place at a social function were better filled by a plainer and more
agreeable person.
But all things end, as even that intolerable dinner finally did, and
Adrian was free to rise and in some quieter place try to rearrange
his disordered ideas. But he noticed that Kate signaled her mother
to lead the guests from the room while she, herself, remained to
exchange a few words with her chief musician. Adrian, also, lingered,
unreproved, with an intensity of interest which fully redeemed his
face from that dulness which his sister had previously assigned to it.
She even smiled upon him, reassuringly:
"You'll get used to society after a bit, brother. You've avoided it so
much and lived so among those artists that you're somewhat awkward
yet. But you'll do in time, you'll do very well. I mean to make it a
point that you shall attend all my little functions."
But Adrian resolved that he would never grace, or disgrace, another in
this place, though he answered nothing. Then the lady turned to Number
526, and the boy's eyes fixed themselves upon that worn face, seeking
resemblances, trying to comprehend that this unhappy fellow was the
father of his sunny Margot.
Kate was speaking now with an accent intended to be kind, even
commendatory, but her brother's ear detected, also, its tone of
condescension. Did the convict notice it, as well? If so, his face
showed no sign.
"You did well, my man, very well. I think that there might be a bit
more time allowed for practice, and will speak to the warden about it.
But you, personally, have a remarkable gift. I hope you will profit by
it to your soul's good. I shall want you and your men again for a time
this evening. I have the warden's consent in the matter. A few arias
and dreamy waltzes, perhaps that sonata which you and 1001 played the
other day at my reception. Just your violin and the piano. You will
undertake it? The instruments shall be screened, of course."
Adrian was leaning forward, his hands clenched, his lips parted. His
gaze became more and more intense. Suddenly the convict raised his own
eyes and met the youth's squarely, unflinchingly. They were blue eyes,
pain-dimmed, but courageous. Margot's eyes, in very shape and color,
as hers might be when life had brought her sorrow. For a half-minute
the pair regarded one another, moved by an influence the elder man
could not understand; then Adrian's hand went out invitingly, while he
said:
"Allow me to thank you for your music. I've never heard a violin speak
as yours does."
The convict hesitated, glanced at the warden's lady, and replied:
"Probably because no other violin has been to any other man what this
has been to me."
But he did not take the proffered hand and, with a bow that would have
graced a drawing-room rather than a cell, clasped his instrument
closely and quietly moved away.
Kate was inured to prison sights, yet even she was touched by this
little by-play, though she reproved her too warm-hearted brother.
"Your generosity does you credit, dear, but we never shake the hand
of a prisoner, except when he is leaving. Not always then."
"Kate, wait a minute. Tell me all about that man. I thought the
prisoners were kept under lock and key. I thought---- Oh! it's so
awful, so incredible."
"Why, Adrian! How foolish. Your artistic temperament, I suppose, and
you cannot help it. No. They are by no means always kept so close.
This one is a 'trusty.' So were all the orchestra. So are all whom
you see about the house or grounds. This man is the model for the
whole prison. He is worth more, in keeping order, than a hundred
keepers. His influence is something wonderful, and his life is a
living sermon. His repentance is unmistakably sincere, and his
conduct will materially shorten his term, yet it will be a dark day
for the institution when he leaves it. I cannot help but like him and
trust him; and yet---- Dear, dear! I must not loiter here. I must get
back to my guests."
"Wait, wait. There's something I want to ask you. To tell you, too. Do
you know who that man is?"
Kate shivered.
"Do I not? Oh! Adrian, though I have brought myself to look upon him
so indulgently now, it was not so at first. Then I hated the sight of
his face, and could scarcely breathe in the room where he was. He is
under life-sentence for manslaughter and--I wonder if I ought to tell
you! But I must. The situation is so dramatic, so unprecedented. The
man whom Number 526 tried to kill, and whom he robbed of many
thousands, was--our own father!"
He was not even surprised and her astonishing statement fell
pointless, except that he shivered a little, as she had done, and
withdrew his hand from her arm, where it had arrested her departure.
"I have heard that already. Mother told me. But I don't believe it.
That man never, never attempted or committed a crime. If he were
guilty could he lift his eyes to mine so steadfastly, I, the son of my
father? There is some horrible, horrible mistake. I don't know what,
nor how, but there is. And I will find it out, will set it right. I
must. I shall never know another moment's peace until I do. Those eyes
of his! Why, sister, do you know that it was little Margot, that man's
daughter, who saved me from starvation in the forest? Yes, saved my
life; and whose influence has turned me from an idle, careless lad
into--a man."
If any of those critical guests could have seen his face at that
moment they would not have called him stupid; and his excitement
communicated itself so strongly to his sister, that she passed her
hands across her brow as if to clear her startled thoughts.
"Impossible. Fifteen years has Number 526 lived a prison life, and if
there had been any mistake, it would, it must, have been found out
long ago. Why, the man had friends, rich ones, who spent great sums to
prove his innocence and failed. The evidence was too strong. If he
had had his way we two would have long been fatherless."
Kate turned to leave the room but Adrian did not follow her. The place
had become intolerable to him, yet he blessed the chance which had
brought him there to see this unhappy fellow-man and to learn this
amazing story. Now he could not wait to put distance between himself
and the hateful spot, and to begin the unraveling of what he knew,
despite all proof, was somebody's terrible blunder.
As cautiously as any convict of them all, escaping from his fetters,
the lad made his way into the street and thence with all speed to the
station. He had picked up a hat somewhere, but was still in full
dress, and more than one glance fell with suspicion upon his heated
countenance and disordered appearance. However, he was too deep in his
own thoughts to observe this, and as the train rushed cityward he grew
more calm and better able to formulate a plan of action.
"I begin to understand. This yearly visit of the 'master' has been to
Number 526. They were close friends, and brothers by marriage. This
year he has brought Margot with him. Will he, I wonder, will he let
her see this convict in stripes? No marvel that my question as to her
father's burial place was an unanswerable one. Mother desired me not
to mention the names of my forest friends before my father, but in
this I must disobey her. I dare not do otherwise. I must get the
whole, complete, detailed history of this awful affair, and there is
nobody who could so well remember it as its victim. But I believe
there were two victims, and one is suffering still. I only hope that
father's head will not be troubling him. I can't think of him without
these queer 'spells' yet he has always been capable of transacting
business, and I must get him to talk, even if it does confuse him. Oh!
hum! Will we never reach the city! And where is Margot now? If I knew
I should hurry to see her first; but--what a welcome her uncle would
give me if I succeeded in clearing her father's name. No wonder he
disliked me--rather I am astonished that he let me stay at all,
knowing my name, even if not my parentage. After that, of course, I
had to go. Yet he was kind and just to the last, despite his personal
feeling, and this poor Number 526 looks just as noble."
The house on Madison Avenue was dark when Adrian reached it, but he
knew that his father's private room was at the rear of the building
and, admitting himself with his latch-key, went directly there.
The banker sat in an attitude familiar to all his family, with his
hands locked together, his head bent, and his gaze fixed upon vacancy.
He might have been asleep for all appearances, but when Adrian entered
and bade "Good-evening, father," he responded promptly enough.
"Good-evening, Adrian. Has your mother come home?"
"No, father. I left--well, I left rather suddenly. In any case, you
know, she was to stop for the night with Kate. But I came, right after
dinner, because I want to have a talk with you. Are you equal to it,
to-night, sir?"
The banker flashed a suspicious glance upward, then relapsed into his
former pose. Memories of previous disagreeable "talks" with this, his
only son, arose, but Adrian anticipated his remark.
"Nothing wrong with me, this time, father, I hope. I am trying to
learn the business and to like it. I----"
"Have you any money, Adrian?"
"A little. What is left of my salary; more than I should have if
mother hadn't fitted my wardrobe out so well. A clerk even in your
bank doesn't earn a princely sum, you remember; not at first."
It was a well-known fact, upon the "street," that the employees of
"Wadislaw's" received almost niggardly payment. Wadislaw, himself had
the reputation of penuriousness, and that his family had lived in the
style they had was because Mrs. Wadislaw's personal income paid
expenses.
"Put it away. Put it away where nobody can find it. There are more
robbers than honest men in the country. Once I was robbed, myself. Of
an enormous sum. I have never recovered from that set-back. We should
not have gotten on at all but for your mother. Your mother is a very
good woman, Adrian."
"Why, yes, father. Of course. The very best in the world, I believe.
She has only one fault, she will make me go into society, and I
dislike it. Otherwise, she's simply perfect."
"Yes, yes. But she watches me too closely, boy. Don't let your wife be
a spy upon you, lad."
"No, I won't," laughed he. "But speaking of robberies, I wish you
would tell me about that great one which happened to you. It was when
I was too young to know anything about it. I have a particular reason
for asking. If you are able, that is."
"Why shouldn't I be able? It is never out of my mind, night nor day.
There was always a mystery in it. Yet I would have trusted him as I
trusted myself. More than I would dare trust anybody now, even you, my
son."
The man was thoroughly aroused, at last. Adrian began to question if
he had done right in saying what would move him so, knowing that all
excitement was apt to be followed by a "spell," during which he acted
like a man in a dream, though never sleeping.
But he resumed the conversation, voluntarily, and Adrian listened
intently.
"He was a poor boy from a country farm. Your mother and the girls,
were boarding at his home. I went up for Sundays, for I liked his
horses. I never felt I could afford to own one---- Don't buy a horse,
Adrian!"
"No, father. Not yet. I'm rather more anxious to buy a certain moose I
know and present it to the city Zoo. King Madoc. You remember I told
you about the trained animal, who would swim and tow a boat, and could
be harnessed to draw a sleigh?"
"Umm. Indeed? Remarkable. Quite remarkable. But I wouldn't do it, boy.
The gift would not be appreciated. Nobody ever does appreciate
anything. It is a selfish world. A selfish world, and an ungrateful
one."
"Not wholly, father, I hope."
"We were talking. What about? I--my memory--so much care, and the
difficulty of keeping secrets. It's hard to keep everything to one's
self when a man grows old, Adrian."
"Yes, father dear. But I'm at home now to stay. You must trust me more
and rely upon me. Believe me, I will deserve your confidence. But it
was the boy from the farm you were telling me of, and the horses."
In all his life Adrian had never drawn so near his father's real self
as he was drawing then. He rejoiced in this fact as a part of the
reward of his more filial behavior. He meant wholly what he had just
promised, but he was still most anxious to hear this old story from
this participant's own lips, while they were together, undisturbed.
"Yes, yes. Well, I thought I could drive a pair of colts as well as
any jockey, though I knew no more about driving than any other city
business man. Of course, they ran away, and I should have been killed,
but that little shaver---- Why, Adrian, that little shaver just sprung
on the back of one, from where he'd been beside me in the wagon, and
he held and pulled and wouldn't let go till they'd quieted down, and
then he was thrown off and nearly trampled to death. I wasn't hurt a
bit, not a single bit. You'd think I'd befriend such a brave,
unselfish little chap as that, wouldn't you, lad?"
In the interest of his recital Mr. Wadislaw had risen and paced the
floor, but he now sat down again, flushed and a bit confused.
"What did you do for him, father?"
"Hmm. What? Oh! yes. Found out he wanted to come to New York and put
him to school. Made a man of him. Gave him a place in the bank.
Promoted him, promoted him, promoted him. Till he got almost as high
as I was myself. Trusted him with everything even more than myself for
he never forgot. It would have been better if he had."
A long silence that seemed intolerable to Adrian's impatience.
"Then, father, what next?"
"How curious you are! Well, what could be next? except that I went one
night--or day--I don't remember--he went---- The facts were all
against him. There was no hope for him from the beginning. If I had
died, he would have hanged, that boy--that little handsome shaver who
saved my life. But I didn't die, and he only tried to kill me. They
found him at the safe--we two, only, knew the lock--and the iron bar
in his hand. He protested, of course. They always do. His wife
came---- Oh! Adrian, I shall never forget her face. She was a
beautiful woman, with such curious, wonderful hair, and she had a
little baby in her arms, while she pleaded that I would not prosecute.
The baby laughed, but what could I do? The law must take its course.
The money was gone and my life almost. There was no hope for him from
the beginning, though he never owned his guilt. But I didn't die,
and--Adrian, why have you asked me all this to-night? I am so tired. I
often am so tired."
The lad rose and stood beside his father's chair, laying his arm
affectionately around the trembling shoulders, as any daughter might
have done, as none of this stern father's daughters dared to do.
"I have asked you, father, and pained you because it was right. I had
to ask. To-day I have seen this 'little shaver,' a convict in his
prison. I have looked into a face that is still noble and undaunted,
even after all these years of suffering and shame. I have heard of a
life that is as helpful behind prison bars as the most devoted
minister's outside them. And I know that he is innocent. He never
harmed you or meant to. I am as sure of this as that I stand here, and
it is my life's task to undo this wrong that has been done. You would
be glad to see him righted, would you not, father? After all this
weary time?"
"I--I--don't--I am ill, Adrian, I---- Take care! The money, the bonds!
My head, Adrian, my head!"