Stephen Sanford arrived in Washington two days later. Little as the boy
realized it, his father's pride in his son was unbounded, and stood out
in marked contrast to the sterner elements in his character which had
combined in such fashion as to enable him to carve out a success among
and in competition with the sturdy, persistent business luminaries who
developed Pittsburgh from an uncouth bed of iron and coal into a great
manufacturing centre. His friends rallied him on his many indulgences to
his son, all of which he accepted in good part, with a uniform rejoinder
that, say what they liked, his son was going to be brought up a
gentleman.
Allen's boyhood was guided by private tutors, and so hemmed in with
conventions which even to his youthful mind were obviously veneers, that
it was with a positive relief that he welcomed the change from the
restraint of home to the freedom of college life. Yet the boy naturally
possessed inherent qualities which, while not leading him to drink too
deeply from the fount of wisdom, still kept him within lines which won
for him the affection of his fellows and the respect of his instructors,
even though his standing as a student was far below what the professors
thought it might have been.
During all this period his father followed his career with that same
care and insight which had characterized his own business success. He
was proud of the position which the boy took--proud of his ability to
mix well with his fellows; proud of his splendid run against Yale at New
Haven which placed the ball within striking-distance of the blue goal;
proud of his seat in the victorious eight at New London, and equally
certain that the other seven had not done their full duty when the shell
was nosed out by Yale at the finish on the succeeding year. If the boy
had missed getting his degree Stephen Sanford would have considered his
son a failure, but with the prized parchment actually secured--the first
in the history of the Sanford family--he cared little how narrow the
margin.
Yet Allen had passed through all these years without a suspicion of his
father's real feelings toward him. He was rebuked for his extravagances
each time he asked for money, yet a substantial check always accompanied
each rebuke. He was criticised for not making a better record in his
studies, and his success in other lines, it seemed to him, was always
accepted as a matter of course. He felt convinced that his father looked
upon him as a colossal failure, and he was too good-natured to quarrel
with this estimate of his abilities; yet with characteristic optimism,
he saw no reason to let this fact interfere with his every-day life and
the pleasures it offered him.
So Allen went to Europe soon after graduation and acquired further
experience in running a motor-car in England and on the Continent,
together with an increased familiarity with foreign scenery and the most
expensive hotels. On his return, he announced his desire to begin his
business career, more because that was what his classmates were doing
than because he was anxious to exchange the freedom of his present life
for the confinement of an office.
"You leave that to me," his father had answered, brusquely. "What you
don't know about business won't help you any in giving advice. You're
going into the diplomatic service."
Unfortunately for the smooth execution of Stephen Sanford's idea, the
whole country at this moment happened to be agitated over the discovery
that a member of the diplomatic corps at Washington had taken advantage
of his official position to secure plans and information, which he had
transmitted to a power unfriendly to America, but allied to the
government which he represented. The diplomat fled, ignominiously
disgraced; but as far as Allen could judge from the comment he heard,
his greatest sin was considered to be the breaking of the thirteenth
commandment, "Thou shalt not be found out."
All this prejudiced the boy unduly against diplomacy as a profession. In
his eyes the acts of this man were unsportsmanlike; and to Allen
Sanford, who looked upon a "good sport" as the noblest work of God, this
charge was the most serious in the category of crime. But his
expostulations and protests to his father were of no avail. Stephen
Sanford had made up his mind, and that was the end of it. Until he met
Alice, Allen had been more upset because his father still treated him as
a child than on account of any serious opposition to plans which he
himself had formed. He had never yet focussed himself upon any one
particular determination with sufficient strength to make his father's
objections other than an annoyance. But now, assimilating a part of the
girl's enthusiasm, and strengthened by the instant admiration which Mr.
Gorham commanded, he was determined to make a stand at this point,
taking the head of the great Consolidated Companies as his model, and
with lance in hand to charge the world just as he would have "bucked"
the Yale line. Even the undesired diplomatic position was apparently not
forthcoming; now he would not only make an effort on his own account,
but he would insist upon his right to do so. He did not know that the
real reason he had heard nothing from his father during these weeks was
because the positions which had been offered thus far appeared to the
older man too insignificant for his son to be able to accept with
dignity. As one of the Pennsylvania senators remarked, "Stephen Sanford
evidently expects his son to go to the Court of St. James."
With Allen in this mood, it was not surprising that the meeting between
father and son, immediately after Stephen Sanford arrived in Washington,
should have ended in a declaration of war. During the interview Allen
gave abundant evidence of his unfitness for anything which required
diplomacy; and his father, surprised to find in the boy a will as
unyielding as his own, and angered beyond expression by Allen's
opposition, lost all control over himself and stamped out of the house,
leaving his son behind, cast out forever from his affection, protection,
and support.
"Let the young cub starve for a while and he'll realize what his father
has done for him," he fumed. "Let him shift for himself and we'll see
how soon he'll come home to roost."
On he stamped along the street, his cane expressing upon the pavement
the anger which consumed him, but becoming less violent as he approached
the hotel where he had his appointment with Gorham. He must calm
himself, he urged, inwardly. He had acted in the only way he could, and
his old friend must not think he had been hasty or injudicial in the
position he had taken. He must be deliberate and self-possessed, as
Gorham himself would have been under the same circumstances. Then the
cane came down again on the hard pavement with a resounding blow. "Damn
Gorham!" he muttered; "damn all these smooth-mannered men who never lose
their tempers; damn everybody!"
"Come in, Stephen, come in; I'm glad to see you," Gorham greeted him as
he puffed into the apartment, almost exhausted by the double strain of
losing his self-control and his strenuous efforts to regain it. "I
didn't realize it was so warm outside. This is the most summer-like
October I have ever seen. Sit down and I'll have Riley mix you up
something cooling."
"No," commanded Sanford, "not a drop; I'm cool enough. I've been
hurrying, that's all. Haven't forgotten how fussy you are about keeping
appointments on the minute, you see."
Gorham laughed. "I must have learned the trait from you; but it doesn't
apply to an old friend like Stephen Sanford," he said. "Business is
business, of course; but you wrote me that you wanted my advice. There
are no minute appointments in friendship, Stephen. My time is yours."
"Thank you." Sanford was sparring for breath. "I haven't pestered you
much with my personal affairs, have I?"
"You couldn't 'pester' me with them, Stephen. If I can serve you I'll
be as glad to as you would be to reciprocate."
"Yes, yes." The visitor still employed monosyllables as far as possible
as his vehicle of expression, but he was mastering his emotion.
"Have you seen Allen?" Gorham asked, naturally but unfortunately.
Sanford sprang out of his chair and waved his arms wildly. "Why do you
try to stir me all up again ?" he cried. "Can't you let me get my
breath?"
Gorham looked at him amazed. "Has anything happened?" he asked.
"The young reprobate! I'll show him. I've cut him off without a penny,
Robert; do you understand--without a penny!"
"You've done what?" Gorham demanded, his face sobering.
"I'll show him that he can't make a monkey out of his father. You've
seen him, Robert. You know what an obstinate, headstrong cub he is.
Wants to go into business, does he? Thinks he knows what's good for him
better than his father does, does he? I'll show him. He can go to the
devil now--that's where he can go."
Gorham knew better than to interrupt Sanford until his tirade was spent.
He watched him pacing up and down the room; he noted the twitching of
his features, the clenched hands, and the violent color in his face.
"You're taking chances to let yourself get worked up like this,
Stephen," he said, quietly, at length. "You and I are growing older, and
our systems won't stand what they used to."
Sanford stopped abruptly. "That's what he's counting on, the ingrate.
I've spent my whole life building up those furnaces and making money so
that he might be a gentleman. Now he throws it all over, and he thinks
I'll shuffle off in one of these spells; but I'll fix him. Not a penny
of my money shall he get--not one penny."
"How has Allen disgraced himself? Has he been stealing, or is it forgery
or murder?"
"You--you," Sanford sputtered, "you dare to suggest that my boy would
disgrace himself! You--you--"
"Sit down, Stephen, and calm yourself," Gorham laughed. "No one could
think of a less heinous crime than I have suggested, judging by your own
arraignment of the boy. How can I help you unless you tell me what has
happened?"
"I'm an old fool to let you string me so, but I'm all used up."
"And the boy has been a young fool and proved himself a chip of the old
block--how is that for a guess?"
"So you're going to take sides with him, are you?"
"How can I tell until I know the circumstances ?"
"He won't do what his father tells him," Sanford explained. "That's the
situation in a nutshell."
"Good! Now you are becoming communicative. So you've cut him off because
he won't do what you tell him?"
"Yes--the young reprobate. How he ever broke into my family is more than
I can understand."
"You're sure your way is better than his, are you, Stephen?"
"Of course I am. Aren't you?"
"I don't know what your way is any more than I know Allen's, so I can
speak without prejudice. I just wanted to be sure that you had given
both sides of the question sufficient consideration to be certain of
your position. It's a serious thing to send your own son adrift,
Stephen."
"He's my son, isn't he?"
"I judge that he has proved that."
"Would you let a son of yours lead you around by the nose?"
"No; nor would I condemn a high-strung colt to the bone-yard because I
couldn't put a bridle on him the first time I tried."
"H'm!" Sanford ejaculated. "It's the women who don't have children who
always attend 'mothers' meetings.' Of course you know just how to handle
a son."
"If you hadn't thought I had some ideas, I don't suppose I should have
had the pleasure of this interview."
"Then you think he ought to be allowed to go into business?"
"This proposition seems now to have become of secondary importance. The
main issue is whether or not a boy twenty-three years old is to be
allowed to express his ideas when they differ from his father's. Allen,
apparently, has settled the matter without any advice from either of
us."
"You don't know what that boy is to me." Sanford's voice broke a little
in spite of him.
"I can imagine," Gorham replied, feelingly. "I know what he would be to
me if he were mine."
"He's all I have in the world, Robert. I've had to be father and mother
to him. I've given him the best education money could buy, I've sent him
to Europe to get that foreign finish every one talks about; and now he
won't do what my heart is set on."
"If the boy wants to go into business, why don't you make a place for
him in your own concern? That's where he ought to be--to take the
responsibilities off your shoulders, one by one, and to continue your
name."
"Put Allen in my furnaces?" Sanford demanded, his choleric attitude
beginning to return. "How can you make a gentleman in my furnaces? Do
you suppose I'd buy a twenty-thousand-dollar painting and hang it up in
the cellar? No, sir; I mean to make something out of that boy better
than his father is, and that isn't the place to do it. But in the
diplomatic service they're all gentlemen--that's why I want to put him
there."
"And if you can't have your own way you prefer to lose the boy
altogether?"
"Oh, he'll come back, the young cub. He'll see which side his bread is
buttered on. It'll be a long time before he can earn the five hundred a
month I give him for an allowance, and he knows it. He'll be back."
"I'm not so sure," Gorham said, seriously.
"You don't think--" Sanford began, showing signs of alarm.
"Would you in his place?"
"That's nothing to do with it; he's only a boy."
"Did you--in his place?"
Sanford looked up quickly. "I had more cause," he replied. "My father
was unreasonable; his isn't."
"Allen's ideas on that subject may differ from yours. Now, if you want
my advice, here it is: Go back to that boy. Tell him you're ashamed to
have lost your temper, and advise him to guard against that greatest
weakness which his father possesses. Tell him you want him to go into
the diplomatic service for a time to gratify your ambition for him, but
that if, after the trial, he prefers business you will stand right back
of him and get him started. Tell him, as you have just told me, that he
is all you have, and that he must make certain sacrifices for your sake,
that he must bear with your weaknesses and profit by your points of
strength. But, above all, make him feel that you believe in him, that
you're proud of him, and that you've been a fool to make such a
humiliating exhibition before him as you did this afternoon."
The gathering storm in Stephen Sanford's face did not deter Gorham from
finishing his remarks. He knew that his old friend had seldom, if ever,
had the truth spoken to him as unreservedly as now; but he had been
asked for his advice, and he proposed to give it.
"You--you--" Sanford choked in his rage. "So that's what you think of
me, is it? It's worth something to know that. Knuckle down to that young
cub and have him putting it over me for the rest of my life? What do you
take me for? I'll see him starve first. Why should you undertake to
advise me about my boy--"
"Chiefly because you asked it, Stephen."
"Well, I don't ask for it any more. With all your experience you're not
competent--"
"Should I have shown greater competency if my advice had agreed with
your own ideas?"
"Don't try to juggle with words, Robert. It's all off between the boy
and me, understand. I'll paddle my canoe and he can paddle his. When
he's ready to use my stroke he knows where my landing is. And now
good-day to you. 'Bear with my weaknesses, eh?' 'Humiliating
exhibition.' Good-day, I say." And without giving Gorham the opportunity
to do so he flung open the door and stamped out into the corridor to the
elevator, his cane keeping time with the tumult of thoughts which surged
through his brain.
Gorham watched the unyielding back of his friend until he turned the
corner, then he closed the door.
"Poor old Stephen," he sighed to himself. "If I had only been blessed
with that boy."