“You’re meddling, sir. We tested that matter in the courts. The court
records----”
“_Your_ courts, Mr. Loring,” put in Gallatin, now thoroughly aroused.
“I’m familiar with the evidence in the case you speak of.”
“_My_ courts!” Loring roared. “The Supreme Court of the State! We
needn’t discuss their decisions here.”
“No, but we will discuss them--elsewhere,” he said soberly. He stopped
and, with a quick change of voice. “Mr. Loring, you’ll pardon me if I
refuse to speak of this further. I’m sorry to learn that----”
“I’m not through yet,” Loring broke in savagely, with a glance at
Jane. “We’ve known for some time that the Sanborn case was in the
hands of Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin, and we’ve been at some pains to
keep ourselves informed as to any action that would be taken by your
clients. We know something about you, too, Mr. Gallatin, and we have
followed your recent investigations with some interest and not a little
amusement. If we ever had any fear of a possible perversion of justice
in this case, through your efforts, I may say that it has been entirely
removed by our knowledge of your methods and of the personal facts of
your career.”
“Father!” Jane’s fingers were on his arm, and her whisper was at his
ear, but he raised a hand to silence her, putting her aside.
[Illustration: “‘Father!’ Jane’s ... whisper was at his ear.”]
“You’re aligning yourself with a discredited cause, sir. Your case is
a bubble which I promise to prick at the opportune moment. The tone
of your letters requesting an interview with a view to reopening the
case is impertinent. The compromise suggested is blackmail and will be
treated as such.”
Gallatin flushed darkly and then turned white at the insult.
“Mr. Loring, I’ll ask you to choose your words more carefully,” he said
angrily, his jaw set.
“I’m not in the habit of mincing words, and I’ll hardly spare you or
the people who employ you for the sake of a foolish whim of a girl,
even though she is----”
“You _must_ not, Father,” whispered Jane again, in tones of anguish.
“You’re in your own house. You’re violating all the----”
“Be quiet,” he commanded shortly, “or leave the room.”
“I can’t be quiet. Mr. Gallatin for the present is my guest and as
such----”
“Whatever Mr. Gallatin’s presence here means, there’s little doubt----”
“I--I asked him to come here,” Jane stammered. “I beg you to leave us.”
“No! If Mr. Gallatin has come here at your invitation, all the more
reason that you, too, should hear what I have to say to him.”
“I will not listen. Will you please go, Mr. Gallatin, at once?”
Phil Gallatin, pale but composed, was standing immovable.
“Thank you. If there’s something else your father has to say, I’ll
listen to it now,” he said. “I can only hope that it will be nothing
that he will regret.”
Jane drew aside and threw herself on the divan, her head buried in her
hands.
“There’s hardly a danger of that,” said Loring grimly. “I’ll take
the risk anyway. I’m in the habit of keeping my house in order, Mr.
Gallatin, and I’m not the kind to stop doing it just because a duty is
unpleasant. There seems to be something between you and my daughter.
God knows what! I have known it for some days, but I haven’t spoken
of it to her or hunted for you because I had reason to believe that
she had had the good sense to forget the silly romantic ideas you had
been putting into her head. I see that I was mistaken. Your presence in
this house is the proof of it. I’ll try to make my objections known in
language that not only you but my daughter will understand.”
With a struggle Gallatin regained his composure, folded his arms and
waited. Jane raised her head, her eyes pleading, then quietly rose and
walking across the room, laid her fingers on Phil Gallatin’s arm and
stood by his side, facing her father. Mr. Loring began speaking, but
she interrupted him quickly.
“Whatever you say to Philip Gallatin, Father, you will say to me.
Whatever you know of him--I know, too, past or present. I love him,”
she finished solemnly.
One of Gallatin’s arms went around her and his lips whispered, “Thank
God for that, Jane.” And then together they faced the older man. Mr.
Loring flinched and some of the purple went out of his face, but his
lower lip protruded and his bulk seemed to grow more compact as the
meaning of the situation grew upon him. His small eyes blinked two or
three times and then glowed into incandescence.
“Oh, I see,” he muttered. “It’s as bad as that, is it? I hadn’t
supposed----”
“Wait a moment, sir,” said Gallatin clearly. “Call it bad, if you like,
but you haven’t a right to condemn me without a hearing.”
Loring laughed. “A hearing? I know enough already, Mr. Gallatin.”
Gallatin took a step forward speaking quietly. “You’re making a
mistake. Whatever you’ve heard about me, I’ve at least got the right of
any man to defend himself. You’ve already chosen to insult me in your
own house. I’ve passed that by, because this is not the time or place
to answer. Kenyon, Hood and Gallatin are not easily intimidated--nor
am I. I want you to understand that here--now.” His voice fell a note.
“When I speak of myself it is a different matter. I don’t know what
you’ve heard about me, and I don’t much care, for in respect to one
thing at least I’ll offer no excuse or extenuation. That’s past and
I’m living in the hope that as time goes on, it will not be borne too
heavily against me. But you’ve got to believe whether you want to or
not that I would rather die than have your daughter suffer because of
me.”
“She has suffered already.”
“No, no!” cried Jane. “Not suffered--only lived, father.”
“And now you’ve quit, I suppose,” said the old man ironically,
“reformed--turned over a new leaf. See here, Mr. Gallatin, this thing
has gone far enough. I’ve listened to you with some patience. Now you
listen to me! You’ve come into my house unbidden, invaded my privacy
here and insinuated yourself again into the good graces of my daughter,
who, I had good reason to believe, had already forgotten you. Your
training has served you well. Fortunately I’m not so easily deceived.
Until the present moment I have trusted my daughter’s good judgment.
Now I find I must use my own. If she isn’t deterred by a knowledge of
your history, perhaps I can supply her with information which will not
fail. I can hardly conceive that she will overlook your conduct when it
involves the reputation of another woman!”
“Father!”
Henry Loring had reached the drawing-room door and now stood, his legs
apart, his fists clenched, his words snapping like the receiver of a
wireless station.
“Deny--if you like! It will have no conviction with me--or with her.
Look at her, Mr. Gallatin,” he said, his finger pointing. “There are
limits even to _her_ credulity. She will hardly be pleased to learn of
the accident to the motor which obliged you and your companion--very
opportunely, indeed, to spend the night in a----”
“Stop, sir!” Gallatin’s hand was extended and his voice dominated. “Say
what you like about me. I’ve invited that, but I’ll not listen while
you rob a woman of her name.”
Jane stood like an ivory figure in the pale light, her eyes dark with
incomprehension, searching Gallatin’s face for the truth.
“There was a woman?” she asked.
Gallatin hesitated.
“Yes, there was a woman. There needn’t be any mystery about that. I
wasn’t aware that there had been any mystery. It was Nina Jaffray. We
were stranded back in the country coming from the ‘Pot and Kettle.’ We
found a farmhouse and stayed there. There wasn’t anything else to do.
You can’t mean that you believe----!”
Jane had turned from him and walked toward the door.
“It hadn’t been my intention to mention the lady’s name,” Loring
laughed. “But since Mr. Gallatin has seen fit to do so----”
“You’re going too far, Mr. Loring. There are ways of reaching a man
even of your standing in the community.”
Loring chuckled.
“I fancy that this is a matter which won’t be discussed elsewhere,” he
said.
Gallatin’s eyes sought Jane’s, who now stood in the doorway into the
hall, one hand clutching the silken hangings.
“You can’t believe this, Jane? You have no right to. Your father has
been told a sinful lie. It’s doing Nina a harm--a dreadful harm. Can’t
you see?”
At the mention of Nina’s name Jane’s lips twisted scornfully and with a
look of contempt she turned and was gone.
Gallatin took a few steps forward as though he would have followed her,
but Loring’s bulky figure interposed.
“We’ve had enough of this, sir,” he growled. “Let’s have this scene
over. We’re done with you. You’ve played h---- with your own life and
you’ll go on doing it, but you won’t play it with me or with any of
mine, by G----. I’ve got your measure, Mr. Gallatin, and if I find
you interfering here again, I’ll take some other means that will be
less pleasant. D’ye hear? I’ve heard the story they’re telling about
you and my daughter up in the woods. It makes fine chatter for your
magpies up and down the Avenue. D---- them! Thank God, my daughter is
too clean for them or you to hurt. It was a great chance for you. You
knew what you were about. You haven’t lived in New York all these years
for nothing. You thought you could carry things through on your family
name, but to make the matter sure you tried to compromise my daughter
so that----”
Loring paused.
Gallatin had stood with head bowed before the door through which
Jane had disappeared. His ears were deaf to Loring’s tirade; but as
he realized the terms of the indictment, he raised his head, stepped
suddenly forward, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing into those of
the older man, scarcely a foot away. In Phil Gallatin’s expression was
the dumb fury of an animal at bay, a wild light in his eyes that was a
personal menace. Loring did not know fear, but there was something in
the look of this young man who faced him which told him he had gone too
far. Gallatin’s right arm moved upward, and then dropped at his side
again.
“You--you’ve said enough, Mr. Loring,” he gasped, struggling for
his breath. “Almost more than is good--for both--for either of us.
You--you--you’re mistaken, sir.”
And then as though ashamed of his lack of control he turned aside, and
took up his hat. Henry Loring strode to the wall and pressed his thumb
to a bell.
“I’ll stand by my mistakes,” he said more calmly. “You came to the
wrong house, Mr. Gallatin, and I think you won’t forget it. I’d like
you to remember this, too, and I’m a man of my word. You keep your
fingers off my affairs, either business or personal, or I’ll make New
York too hot to hold you,” and then as the man appeared, “Hastings,
show this gentleman out!”
XXI
TEMPTATION
Philip Gallatin had a bad night. From the Loring house he trudged forth
into the rain and sleet of the Park where he walked until his anger had
cooled; then dined alone in a corner at the Cosmos, avoiding a group of
his familiars who were attuned to gayety. From there he went directly
to his rooms.
The house of his fathers was in a by-street in the center of the
fashionable shopping district, and this dwelling, an old-fashioned
double house of brown stone, was the only relic that remained to
Phil of the former grandeur of the Gallatins. Great lawyers, however
successful in safeguarding the interests of their clients, are notable
failures in safeguarding the interests of their own. Philip Gallatin,
the elder, had inherited a substantial fortune, but had added nothing
to it. He had lived like a prince and was known as the most lavish
host of his day. He consorted with the big men of his generation when
the Gallatin house was famous alike for its cellar and kitchen. Here
were entertained presidents and ex-presidents of the United States,
foreign princes, distinguished artists and literary men, and here it
was claimed, over Philip Gallatin’s priceless Madeira, the way had been
paved for an important treaty with the Russian government.
Philip Gallatin, the second, had made money easily and spent it more
easily, to the end that at the time of his death it was discovered
that the home was heavily mortgaged, and that his holdings in great
industrial corporations, many of which he had helped to organize,
had been disposed of, leaving an income which, while ample for Mrs.
Gallatin and her only child during the years of his boyhood, when the
taste of society was for quieter things, was entirely inadequate to
the growing requirements of the day. At his mother’s death, just after
he came of age, Phil Gallatin had found himself possessed of less than
eight thousand a year gross, and a mortgage which called for almost
one-half that sum. But he resolutely refused to part with the house,
for it had memories and associations dear to him.
Three years ago, with a pang which he still remembered, he had decided
to rent out the basement and lower floors for business purposes and
apply the income thus received to taxes and sinking fund, but he still
kept the rooms on the third floor which he had always occupied, as his
own. An old servant named Barker, one of the family retainers, was in
attendance. Barker had watched the tide of commerce flow in and at
last engulf the street which in his mind would always be associated
with the family which he had served so long. But he would not go, so
Philip Gallatin found a place for him. In the building he was janitor,
engineer, rent collector, and valet. He cooked Phil’s breakfast of eggs
and coffee and brought it up to him, made his bed and kept his rooms
with the same scrupulous care that he had exercised in the heydey of
prosperity. He was Phil’s doctor, nurse and factotum, and kept the
doors of Gallatin’s apartments against all invaders.
Phil Gallatin wearily climbed the two long flights which led to the
rooms. He had had a trying day. All the morning had been spent with
John Sanborn, and a plan had been worked out based upon the labors of
the past three weeks. One important decision had been reached, and
a concession wrung at last from his clients. He had worked at high
tension since the case had been put into his hands, traveling, eating
when and where he could, working late at the office, sleeping little,
and in spare moments had written to or thought of Jane. The strain of
his anxiety was now beginning to tell. The events of the afternoon had
filled him with a new sense of the difficulties of his undertakings.
Loring would fight to the last ditch. All the more glory in driving him
there!
But of Jane he thought with less assurance. His own mind had been so
innocent of transgression, his own heart so filled with the thought
of her, that her willingness to believe evil of him and of Nina had
caused a singular revulsion of feeling which was playing havoc with
his sentiments. It had not mattered so much when Jane’s indictment had
been for him alone; that, he had deserved and had been willing to stand
trial for; but with Nina’s reputation at stake Jane’s intolerance took
a different aspect. Whatever Nina Jaffray’s faults, and they were many,
Phil Gallatin knew, as every one else in the Cedarcroft crowd did,
that they were the superficial ones of the day and generation and that
Nina’s pleasure was in the creation of smoke rather than flame.
The failure of the motor after the “Pot and Kettle” party had been
unfortunate, and the lack of oil subsequently explained by the
drunkenness of the chauffeur who had been discharged on Miss Jaffray’s
return to town. Phil Gallatin had found a farmhouse, where Nina had
been made comfortable. There was no gasoline within five miles of the
place. The chauffeur was unable to cope with the situation and there
was nothing for it but to wait until morning, when the farmer himself
drove Gallatin to the nearest village for the needed fuel.
Under other circumstances it might have been an amusing experience,
but the events of the evening had put a damper on them both. Nina’s
impudence was smothered in her fur collar, and she had sat sulkily
through the hours of darkness, gazing at the stove, saying not a word,
and the delinquent chauffeur had meanwhile gone to sleep on the floor
of the kitchen. Morning saw them safe in town at an early hour, and it
had been at Nina’s request that the incident had not been mentioned.
Until to-day Gallatin had not given it a thought. He had not seen Nina,
and while he had frequently thought of her, the flight of time and the
press of affairs had given her singular confession a perspective that
took something from its importance. But Jane’s attitude had suddenly
made Nina the dominant figure in the situation. Whatever mischief she
had created in his own affairs, she had not deserved this!
He entered his rooms filled with bitterness toward Henry Loring, dull
resentment toward Jane. Everything in the world that he hoped for had
centered about her image, and he loved her for what she had been to
him, what she had made of him and for what he had made of himself, but
in his mind a definite conviction had grown, that in so far as he was
concerned their relations were now at an end. He had abased himself
enough and further efforts at a reconciliation could only demean his
dignity, already jeopardized, and his pride, already mortally wounded.
He threw himself heavily into his Morris chair and tried to think
about other things. Upon the table there was a legal volume which he
had brought up from the office the night before, filled with slips of
paper for the reference pages which Tooker had placed there for him.
He took it up and began to read, but his mind wandered. The type swam
before his eyes and in its place Jane’s face appeared, ivory-colored
as he had last seen it, and her eyes dark with pain and incomprehension
looked scornfully out of the page. He closed the book and gazed
around the room, into the dusty corners, with their mementos of his
career: the oar that had been his when he had stroked the crew of his
university, boxing gloves, foils and mask, photographs of football
teams in which he had been interested, a small cabinet of cups--golf
and steeplechase prizes, a policeman’s helmet, the spoils of a college
prank, his personal library (his father’s was in a storage warehouse),
trinkets of all sorts, steins innumerable, a tiny satin slipper, some
ivories and--a small gold flask.
He got out of his chair, picked the flask up, and examined it as if it
had been something he had never seen before. He ran his fingers over
the chasing of the cup, noted the dents that had been made when it had
fallen among the rocks, and the dark scar made in the embers of their
fire.
Their fire! His fire and Jane’s--burned out to ashes.
He put the flask back in its place and began slowly to pace the floor,
his hands behind his back, his head bent forward, his eyes peering
somberly. He stopped in his walk and put a lump of coal into the grate.
He was dead tired and his muscles ached as though with a cold. In the
next room his bed invited him, but he did not undress, for he knew
that if he went to bed it would only be to lie and gaze at the gray
patch of light where the window was. He had done that before and the
memory of the dull ache in his body during the long night when he had
suffered came to him and overpowered him. He had that pain now--coming
slowly, as it had sometimes done before when he had been working on his
nerve. It didn’t grip him as once it had done, with its clutch of fire,
driving everything else from his thoughts. But he was conscious that
the craving was still there, and he knew that the thing he wanted was
the panacea for the thoughts that oppressed him. By its means all the
aches of his body would be cured and the pain of his thoughts. Yes! He
stopped at the table and took up a cigarette. But there was one thing
in him, one thing more important than physical pain, than physical
exhaustion or singing nerves, one small celestial spark that he had
kindled, fostered, and tended which had warmed and comforted his entire
being--the glow of his returning self-respect; and this thing he knew,
if those physical pangs were cured, would die.
He took up his measured tread of the floor, counting his footsteps
from window to door and back again, watching the patterns in the rug
and picking out the figures upon which he was to put his feet. Once or
twice his footsteps led him as though unconsciously to the cabinet in
the corner, where he stopped with a short laugh. He had forgotten that
there was no panacea there. Later on he rang the bell for Barker, only
to remember that the man had gone away for the night. He wanted some
one to talk to--some one--any one who could make him forget. What was
the use? What did it matter to any one but himself if he forgot or not?
What was he fighting for? For himself? Yesterday and the days before he
had been fighting for Jane, fighting gladly--downtown, in his clubs,
at people’s houses, in the Enemy’s country, where the Enemy was to be
found at every corner, at his very elbow, because he knew that nothing
could avail against his purpose to win Jane back to him.
Now he had no such purpose. Jane had turned from him because some one
had lied about him, turned away and left him here alone in the dark
with this hideous thing that was rising up in him and would not let him
think.
He went to the table and filled a pipe with trembling fingers. A
terror oppressed him, the imminence of a danger. It was the horror of
being alone, alone in the room where this thing was. He knew it well.
It had been here before and it had conquered him. It lurked in the dark
corners and grinned from his bookshelves and laughed in the crackling
of his fire. “Come,” he could hear it say, “don’t you remember old Omar?
“Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling;
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly--and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.”
His pulses throbbed and his head was burning, though a cold sweat had
broken out on his brows and temples, and his feet were cold--ice cold.
The tobacco had no taste, and it only parched his throat the more. He
stumbled into the bathroom and bathed his head and hands in the cold
water, and drank of it in huge gulps. That relieved him for a moment
and he went back to his chair and took up his book.
His sickness came back upon him slowly, a premonitory faintness and
then a gripping, aching fire within. The book trembled in his hands and
the type swam in strange shapes. He clenched his fingers, threw the
book from him and rose with an oath, reaching for his hat and coat and
stumbling toward the door. Downstairs, less than a block away----
Beside the bookcase he caught a glimpse of his image in the pier glass.
He stopped, glared at himself and straightened.
“Where are you going, d----n you? Where? Like a thief in the night?
Look at me! You can’t! Where are you going?”
There was no answer but the laughter of the flames and the sneer of a
motor in the Avenue.
His hand released the knob and he turned back into the room, with eyes
staring, teeth set and face ghastly.
“No, by G----. You’ll not go, Phil Gallatin, not from this room
to-night--not for that. Do you hear? You’ll fight this thing out here
and now.”
He dropped his coat and hat and strode like a fury to the window. There
he lay across the sill, and throwing the sash open wide, drank the
night air into his lungs in deep breaths.
In a moment the crisis had passed. After a while he closed the window,
came back into the room and sank into his chair, utterly exhausted. His
mind comprehended dully that he had fought and won, not for Jane, nor
for his future, but for that small fire that was still glowing in his
breast. He closed his eyes and relaxed his clenched fingers. His nerves
still tingled but only slightly like the tremor of harpstrings in a
passing storm. He was very tired and in a moment he fell asleep.
When he awoke, the light of dawn was filtering in at the windows. The
lamp had gone out. He struck a match and made a light. It was six
o’clock. He had slept seven hours. He yawned, stretched himself and
looked at his disordered reflection in the mirror, suddenly awake to
the beginning of a new day. The aches in his body had gone and his
mind was clear again. He leaned forward upon the mantel and silently
apostrophized his image.
“You’re going to win, Phil Gallatin. Do you hear? You’re _not_ afraid.
You don’t care what the world says. You’re not fighting for the world’s
opinion. It’s only your own opinion of yourself that matters a d----n.
If you win that, you’ve won everything in the world worth winning.”