"Set the boy right before the world."
"And ruin yourself?"
"Of course, the truth is what ruins me."
"But if I were your son, sir," said the secretary, "rather than see
you ruined I would take the blame on myself. He can live it down."
"But he is not to blame. On the contrary he was right, and I was
wrong. Here, Shurtliff, is his own letter. You know it, you saw him
give it to me. You heard the conversation and I have written out a
little account explaining it, stating that I made light of his
protests, acknowledging that he was right and I was wrong, taking the
whole blame upon myself. He will be back here tonight I am sure. I
intended to give it to him."
"Oh, don't do that, Mr. Meade."
"You have no son of your own. You don't know what you ask."
"Let the boy bear it," urged Shurtliff desperately. "By my long
service to you, I beg----"
The telephone bell rang.
"The Bridge!" clamored the insistent bell.
The two old men stared at the instrument. It was the weaker who
acted, in obedience to a sign from the engineer. Staggering almost
like a drunken man, Shurtliff left his place by the door and passing
his companion, whose turn it was to shrink back against the wall, he
reached his thin hand out and lifted up the telephone, its bell
vibrating it seemed with angry, venomous persistence through the
quiet room.
"It's a telegram," he whispered. "Yes, this is Mr. Meade's private
secretary. Go on," he answered into the mouthpiece of the telephone.
There was another moment of ghastly silence while he took the
message. It was typical of Shurtliff's character that in spite of
the horrible agitation that filled him, he put the instrument down
carefully on the desk, methodically hanging up the receiver before he
turned to face the other man. He spoke deprecatingly. No woman
could exceed the tenderness he managed to infuse into his ordinarily
dry, emotionless voice.
"The bridge is in the river, sir."
"Of course, any more?"
"Abbott--and one hundred and fifty men with it."
"Oh, my God!" said the old man.
He staggered forward. Shurtliff caught him and helped him down into
the big chair before the desk. The news had been discounted in his
mind, still some kind of hope had lingered there. Now it was over.
"We must wire Martlet," he gasped out.
"The telegraph office said the message was addressed to you and
Martlet, so they have got the news, sir."
"It won't be too late for the last editions of the evening papers,
either," said the old man. "Shurtliff, I was going to give these
documents to the boy when he got back, but I want them to appear
simultaneously with the news of the failure of the bridge. Wait."
He seized the pen and signed his name to the brief letter of
exculpation.
The writing in the body of the document was weak and feeble, the
signature was strong and bold. He gathered the papers up loosely.
"Here," he said, "I want you to take them to a newspaper--the
_Gazette_--that will be certain to issue an extra if it is too late
for the last edition. I want this letter of his with mine to go side
by side with the news. There must not be a moment of uncertainty
about it."
"Mr. Meade, for God's sake----"
"Don't stop to argue with me now. Take a taxi and get there as
quickly as you can. You are carrying my honor, and my son's
reputation. Go."
The old man spoke sharply--imperiously--in such a tone as he rarely
used to the other. White as death himself, and greatly shaken,
Shurtliff took the papers, folded them up methodically, and hunted
for an envelope.
"Don't stay for anything, Shurtliff," repeated Meade, "but go
quickly. Stay at the _Gazette_ office until the extra comes out.
Bring me one. I'll wait here for you."
Shurtliff did not dare to say anything further. Although thousands
of protests rushed to his lips he did not give them utterance. As if
it had been an ordinary commission he was charged to execute, he
turned and walked out of the room. He paused as he reached the door
and looked back. The old engineer sat before his desk, the pen still
in his right hand, his left hand clenched and extended across the
desk. He sat erect. Something of the dignity and the pride and
strength and firmness of the days before had come back to him. He
smiled faintly. His old friend closed the door behind him and
departed.
XV
FOR THE HONOR OF THE FATHER
Two and one-half hours later a group of anxious reporters, clustered
at the door of the Uplift Building, were galvanized into life by the
arrival of a taxicab. The chauffeur had driven like one possessed.
Out of it leaped Bertram Meade. He was recognized instantly.
"At last," said the foremost of them, as he recognized the newcomer.
"We'll get something definite now."
"You know about the bridge, Mr. Meade," asked another, striving to
force his way through the crowd, which broke into a sudden clamor of
questioning.
Meade nodded. He recognized the first speaker, their hands met.
This was a man of his own age named Rodney, who had been Meade's
classmate at Cambridge, his devoted friend thereafter. Instead of
active practice he had chosen to become a writer on scientific
subjects and was there as a representative of _The Engineering News_.
There were sympathy and affection in his voice, and look, and in the
grasp of his hand.
"Have you seen my father, Rodney?" Meade asked, quickly moving to the
elevator, followed by all the men.
"At the house they said he was not there, and here at the office we
get no answer."
As Meade turned he saw his father's secretary coming slowly through
the entrance.
"There's his secretary," he said. "Shurtliff," he called out.
"Yes, Mr. Meade," said the old man, who was a pitiable spectacle.
For an instant young Meade realized what this would be to Shurtliff.
"My father?"
"I left him in the office two hours ago."
"Had he heard the news?
"It had just come, sir, and----"
"Where have you been?"
"He told me to--to--go away and--and leave him alone. I have been
wandering about the streets. My God, Mr. Meade, what is going to
become of us?"
Outside in the street the newsboys were shrieking:
"Extry! Extry! All about the collapse of the International Bridge.
Two hundred engineers and workmen lost."
Shurtliff had one of the papers in his hand. Meade tore it from him.
"WHO IS RESPONSIBLE?" stared at him in big red headlines.
"Gentlemen," said Meade, "I can answer that question"--he held up the
paper so that all might see--"the fault--the blame--is mine."
"We'll have to see your father, Bert," said Rodney.
"He can add nothing at all to what I have said, old man."
"He will have to confirm it," said another. "It's too grave a matter
to rest on your word alone."
"You can't see my father."
"He is in this building, we know, and he'll never leave it without
running the gauntlet of us all," cried another amid a chorus of
approval.
Meade realized there was no escape. They all piled into the elevator
with him and Shurtliff. They followed him up the corridor. He
stopped before the door of the office.
"I forbid you to come in," he said. "This is my father's private
office----"
"Have no fear, Bert," said Rodney firmly. "We don't intend to break
in. We understand how you feel. We won't cross that threshold
unless and until you invite us. But I point out to you that this is
a matter of the greatest public concern, that hundreds of lives have
been lost, that the whole world is interested, that somebody is to
blame. You say that you are, but your father was the chief engineer.
His is the responsibility unless it can be shown otherwise."
"If you will give me ten minutes, Rod, I will admit you and all the
rest. You can then see my father and you may question him fully."
"Very good, that's perfectly fair," said Rodney. "And I am sure I
speak for the others. We will wait here until you say the word and
then all we shall want will be a statement from your father."
"Thank you, old man. Come, Shurtliff," said Meade, turning his key
in the lock. The two men entered and carefully closed the door
behind them.
The door was scarcely shut when Helen Illingworth left the elevator
and came rapidly up the corridor. She had called at the office
before and had no need to ask the way. The reporters gathered around
the door moved to give her passage while they stared at her with deep
if respectful curiosity. Many of these men were the iron and steel
business reporters. They did not know her, of course, but her
beauty, her distinction, and her interest, and even her distress,
were evident. The reporters who dealt in social matters would have
recognized her at once. Indeed her face was vaguely familiar to some
of them because she was a reigning beauty and a belle, and her
picture had appeared in different papers many times.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," she began, "but I am very anxious to see the
younger Bertram Meade."
"He has just gone into the office," answered Rodney respectfully.
The girl raised her hand to knock.
"A moment, please; perhaps you had better understand the situation.
The International Bridge----"
"I know all about it."
"I represent _The Engineering News_ and these other gentlemen various
New York papers. Now Meade, Junior, has just assumed the full
responsibility for the faulty construction and we are waiting to get
confirmation of that from his father. It is a serious matter and----"
The girl came to a sudden determination. She could not declare
herself too soon or too publicly.
"My name is Illingworth," she said, and as the hats of the surprised
reporters came off, she continued, "I am the daughter of the
president of the Martlet Bridge Company, which was erecting the
International."
"Yes, Miss Illingworth," answered Rodney, "and did you come here to
represent him?"
"I am Mr. Bertram Meade, Junior's, promised wife, and I am here
because it is the place where I ought to be. When the man I love is
in trouble I must be with him."
Now she raised her hand again, but Rodney was too quick for her. He
knocked lightly on the door and then struck it heavily several times.
The sound rang hollowly through the corridor as it always does when
the door of an empty room is beaten upon. There was no answer for a
moment.
"Oh, I must get in," said the woman.
Rodney knocked again and this time the door was opened. Shurtliff
stood in the way. He had been white and shaken before, but there are
no adjectives to describe his condition now. So anguished and
shocked was his appearance that everybody stared. Shurtliff
moistened his lips and tried to speak. He could not utter a word,
but he did manage to point toward the private office.
"Perhaps I would better go first," said Rodney, as the secretary
stepped back to give them passage.
Helen Illingworth followed and then the rest. Young Meade was in the
private office into which they all came. He was standing erect by
his father's chair. He was pale and strained also, but in his eyes
burned the fire of deep determination. The great bulk of the old
engineer was slouched down in that chair. His body was bent down
over his desk. His head lay on the desk face downward. One great
arm, his left, extended shot straight across the desk. His fist was
clenched, his right arm hung limp by his side. He was still.
There was something unmistakably terrible in his motionless aspect.
They had no need to ask what had happened. A sharp exclamation from
the woman, not a scream but a sort of catch of the breath as if to
repress an outbreak, was the only sound that broke the silence, as
she alone went toward the standing engineer. The men stood there
bareheaded while Helen Illingworth passed around Rodney and stepped
to her lover's side.
"You can't question my father now, gentlemen," said Meade, who from
Meade Junior had suddenly become Meade Only, "he is dead."
In the outer office they heard Shurtliff brokenly calling the doctor
on the telephone and asking him to notify the police.
"Did he----" began one hesitatingly.
"He was too big a man to do himself any hurt, I know," answered Meade
proudly, as he divined the question. "The autopsy will tell. But I
am sure that the failure of the bridge has broken his heart."
"And we can't fix the responsibility now," said Rodney, who for his
friend's sake was glad of this consequence of the old man's death.
"Yes, you can," said the young man.
He leaned forward and laid his right hand on his dead father's
shoulder. Helen Illingworth had possessed herself of his left hand.
She lifted it and held it to her heart. The engineer seemed
unconscious of the action and still it was the greatest thing he had
ever experienced. Meade spoke slowly and with the most weighty
deliberation in an obvious endeavor to give his statement such clear
definiteness that no one could mistake it.
"Here in the presence of my dead father," he began, "whose life I
have ended and whose career I have ruined, but whose fame shall be
unimpaired, I solemnly declare that I alone am responsible for the
design of the member that failed. My father was getting along in
years. He left a great part of the work to me. He pointed out what
he thought was a structural weakness in the trusses, but I overbore
his objections. I alone am to blame. The Martlet Bridge Company
employed us both. They said they wanted the benefit of my father's
long experience and my later training and research."
"Do you realize, Meade," said Rodney, as the pencils of the reporters
flew across their pads, "that in assuming this responsibility which,
your father being dead, cannot be----"
"I know it means the end of my career," said Meade, forcing himself
to speak those words. "My father's reputation is dearer to me than
anything on earth."
"Even than I?" whispered the woman.
"Oh, my God!" burst out the man, and then he checked himself and
continued with the same monotonous deliberation as before, and with
even more emphasis, "I can allow no other interest in life, however
great, to prevent me from doing my full duty to my father."
Indeed, as he had been fully resolved to protect his old father's
fame had the father survived the shock, the fact that the old man was
dead and helpless to defend himself only strengthened his son's
determination. The appeal of the dead man was even more powerful
than if he had lived. Meade could not glance down at that crushed,
broken, impotent figure and fail to respond. It was not so much
love--never had he loved Helen Illingworth so much as then--as it was
honor. The obligation must be met though his heart broke like his
father's; even if it killed him, too.
And the woman! How if it killed her? He could not think of that.
He could think of nothing but of that inert body and its demand. He
had to lie, even to swear falsely, before God and man if necessary,
for him. There was no other possible answer to what Meade, wrongly
if you will, but nevertheless unmistakably, conceived to be his
father's appeal. He completely misjudged his dead father, to be
sure. But that thought did not enter his head. He spoke as he did
because he must.
"Have you no witnesses, no evidence to substantiate your
extraordinary statement?" asked Rodney.
"I can substantiate it," said Shurtliff, coming into the room, having
finished his telephoning. "The doctor and the police will be here
immediately, but before they come----" and he drew himself up and
faced the reporters boldly. "Gentlemen, I can testify that
everything that Mr. Bertram Meade has said is true. I happened to be
here when my dead friend and employer got the telegram announcing the
failure of the bridge and, although he knew it was his son's fault,
he bravely offered to assume the responsibility and he told me to go
to the newspapers and tell them that it was his fault and that his
son had protested in vain against his design."
"Why didn't you do it?" asked one of the reporters.
"I couldn't, sir," faltered the old man. "It wasn't true. The son
there was to blame."
He sank down in his seat and covered his face with his hands and
broke into dry, horrible sobs. It was not easy for him either, this
shifting of responsibility.
"You see," said young Meade, "I guess that settles the matter. Now
you have nothing more to do here."
"Nothing," said Rodney at last, "not in this office at least. We
must wait for the doctor, but we can do that outside."
"Rod, will you kindly take charge outside--my father's secretary, you
see, is not able to do so--and let no one come in here except the
doctor until the police arrive. You have your story?"
"Yes," said Rodney with a great pity for his friend, in whose
innocence he somehow continued to believe in spite of what he had
said. "We've had a full account of the accident telegraphed from the
works and now this completes it."
One by one the men filed out, leaving the dead engineer with his son,
the secretary, and the woman in the room.
The iron strain which Meade had put upon himself gave way and not the
least part of his breakdown was the consciousness of the lie he had
told so bravely and so gallantly to shield his father. And now at
last came the realization that he had not only thrown away his own
reputation and career, but that he had cast the woman he loved into
the discard also. He drew his hand away from her, turned, rested his
head on his arm on the top of the low bookcase as if to shut out from
his sight what he stood to lose.
"Bert," said the woman, coming closer to him and laying her hand on
his shoulder, while he made no effort to turn his head around, "why
or how I feel it I cannot tell, but I know in my heart that you are
doing this for your father's sake, that what you said was not true.
Things you have said to me----"
"Did I ever say anything to you," began Meade in fierce alarm, while
Shurtliff started to speak but checked himself, "to lead you to think
that I suspected any weakness in the bridge?"
The woman was watching him keenly and listening to him with every
sense on the alert. Nothing was escaping her and she detected in his
voice a note of sharp alarm and anxiety as if he might have said
something which could be used to discredit his assertion now.
"Perhaps not in words but in little things, suggestions," she
answered quietly. "I can't put my hand on any of them, I can hardly
recall anything, but the impression is there."
Meade smiled miserably at her and again her searching eyes detected
relief in his.
"It is your affection that makes you say that," he said, "and as you
admit there is really nothing. What I said just now is true."
It was much harder to speak the lie to this clear-eyed woman, who
loved him, than to the reporters. He could scarcely complete the
sentence, and in the end sought to look away.
"Bertram Meade," said the woman, putting both her hands upon his
shoulder, "look me in the face and before God and man, and in the
presence of your dead father and remembering I am the woman you love,
to whom you have plighted yourself, and tell me that you have spoken
the truth and that the blame is yours."
Meade tried his best to return her glance, but those blue eyes
plunged through him like steel blades. He did not dream in their
softness could be developed such fire. He was speechless. After a
moment he looked away. He shut his lips firmly. He could not
sustain her glance, but nothing could make him retract or unsay his
words.
"I have said it," he managed to get out hoarsely.
"It's brave of you. It's splendid of you," she said. "I won't
betray you. I don't have to."
"What do you mean?" asked the man.
But the woman had now turned to Shurtliff. In his turn she also
seized him in her emotion and she shook him almost eagerly.
"You, you know that it is not true. Speak!"
But she had not the power over the older man that she had over the
younger. The secretary forced himself to look at her. He cared
nothing for Miss Illingworth, but he had a passion for the older
Meade that matched hers for the younger.
"He has told the truth," he cried almost like a baited animal. "No
one is going to ruin the reputation of the man I have served and to
whom I have given my life without protest from me. It's his fault,
his, his, his!" he cried, his voice rising with every repetition of
the pronoun as he pointed at Meade.
Helen Illingworth turned to her lover again. She was quieter now.
"I know that neither of you is telling the truth," she said. "Lying
for a great cause, lying in splendid self-sacrifice. You are ruining
yourself for your father's name and he is abetting. Why? It can't
make any difference to him now. It would not make any difference to
him even if you were responsible for the collapse of the bridge. We
all make mistakes. My father has made many, and Mr. Curtiss. But it
makes a great difference to me. Have you thought of that? I'm going
to marry you anyway. All that foolish talk about our marriage
depending on the bridge is nothing. I told my father so. He said
he'd repudiate me if I came here. But he'll not do that. He'll be
terribly angry, but he'll forgive me. Only tell me the truth, Bert.
By our love I ask you. If you want me to keep your secret I'll do
it. Indeed I'll have to keep it, for I have no evidence yet to prove
it false, but if you won't tell me I'll get that evidence, I will
find out the truth, and then I shall publish it to the whole world
and then----"
"And you would marry me then?" asked Meade, swept away by this
profound pleading.
"I will marry you now, instantly, at any time," answered the girl.
"Indeed you need me. Guilty or innocent, I am yours and you are
mine."
"You don't understand," said Meade. "I am ruined beyond hope. I
can't drag you down."
"No," said the girl, "but you can lift me up as high as your heart,
and no man can place me in a nobler position."
"Listen," protested the engineer, "nothing will ever relieve me of
the blame, of the shame, of the disgrace of this. My life as it has
been planned is now wrecked beyond repair. I don't know whether this
awful cloud can ever be lifted, whether I can ever be anything again
among men. But I am a man. I have youth still, and strength and
inspiration. When I can hold up my head among men and when I have
won back their respect, it may even be a meed of their admiration, I
shall humbly sue for that you now so splendidly offer, but until that
time I am nothing to you and you are free."
There was a finality in his tone which the woman recognized. She
could as well break it down as batter a stone wall with her naked
fist. She looked at him a long time.
"Very well," she said at last, "unless I shall be your wife I shall
be the wife of no man. I shall wait confident in the hope that there
is a just God, and that He will point out some way."
"And if not?"
"I shall die, when it pleases God, still loving you."
"And being loved," he cried, sweeping her to his heart, "until the
end."
XVI
THE UNACCEPTED RENUNCIATION
The doctor and the officers of the law now entered the outer office.
Reluctantly the woman drew herself away from the man's arms, which
were as reluctant to release her. In spite of the brave words that
had been spoken by the woman the man could only see a long parting
and an uncertain future. He realized it the more when old Colonel
Illingworth entered the room in the wake of the others. After he had
recovered himself he had hurried to the station in time to catch the
next train and had come to New York, realizing at once where his
daughter must have gone; besides his presence was needed in New York
in view of the catastrophe.
He had brushed by the reporters, refusing to listen to them. Not
anticipating what he saw as he entered the private office, the color
faded from his face as he became aware of the big, prostrate, inert
figure bending over the desk. It came again into his cheeks when he
saw his daughter.
"My father is dead," said Meade as the doctor and the officers of the
law examined the body of the old man. The son had eyes for no one
but the old Colonel. "The failure of the bridge has broken his
heart; my failure, I'd better say."
"I understand," said Illingworth. "He is fortunate. I would rather
have died than have seen any son of mine forced to confess criminal
incompetency like yours."
"Father!" protested Helen Illingworth.
"Helen," said the Colonel sternly, "you have no business to be here.
You heard what I said when you left me. But you are my daughter, my
only daughter. I was harsh, perhaps, and hasty. I came to fetch
you. Are you coming with me or do you go with this man--this
incompetent--upon whose head is the blood of the men who went down
with the bridge, to say nothing of the terrible material loss?"