The elder Riley felt the tenseness in the atmosphere of the Gorham
family, and his inability to discover the occasion for it proved trying
to his soul. The mysterious visits of his son James, and the apparent
confidences between him and his employer, made the old man feel strongly
that, if James were not a part of the new condition, at least he was
acquainted with the cause. Patience with Riley had ceased to be a
virtue, and he so contrived it that he passed an evening with his son at
the latter's lodgings.
Much to his relief, he found James in an unusually agreeable mood; and,
although the younger man made no effort to move from the comfortable
position he had assumed with the assistance of an extra chair for his
feet, the welcome extended was far more cordial than that to which the
elder Riley was accustomed.
"Well, well, well," the old man ejaculated, as he closed the door and
stood for a moment contemplating the scene before him. James smiled
complacently at the look of mingled surprise and admiration his father
so plainly showed, as his eye roved from the new pieces of gaudy
furniture to the box of cigars upon the table, particularly noting the
attitude which the son assumed as the nearest he could imagine to that
of a gentleman in repose.
"Well, well, well," Riley repeated, coming down to earth again, and
seating himself upon a near-by chair not required for James's feet,
which the host had been too preoccupied to think of offering. "Things is
comin' good f'r ye, ain't they, Jimmie?"
The old man had discovered a fact which James had no desire to dispute,
so he admitted it graciously, at the same time blowing clouds of smoke
from his over-fragrant cigar.
"They is," he replied, sententiously; "and soon they'll be comin' better
still."
"Ah, Jimmie"--the old man lowered his voice--"are ye goin' ter run f'r
mayor?"
"Not--yet," James replied, dwelling upon his words in such a way as to
convince his hearer that the delay was wholly a matter of his own
convenience. "Politics is movin' some, father, but 'tis in my private
capacity that I'm makin' my present strides."
"So," murmured Riley; "an' phwat may ye'er private capacity be, Jimmie?"
"'Tis of a confidential nature," he replied, loftily.
"Has it ter do wid Misther Robert?"
"Him--and others."
"Who is th' others?" the old man persisted.
"That's my affair. 'Tis confidential, I tell you."
"Not wid me, Jimmie," Riley begged; "not when I've watched over Misther
Robert iver sence he was a little la-ad, not wid me when I've brought ye
up fr'm a howlin' little brat. There can't be nothin' confidential, I
tell ye, when it's affectin' thim I loves best in all th' whole wide
world. Shure ye'll tell me about it, Jimmie, shure ye will."
In James's present mood, it was easier to talk than to keep silent. If
his father really knew the importance of the part he felt himself to be
playing in Mr. Gorham's family complication, the old man's appreciation
of his son's true position in the community could not fail to be
enhanced. James Riley's most vulnerable point was his vanity, and the
present opportunity to gratify it was more than he could well resist.
The elder Riley, without having analyzed his son's characteristics to
this extent, was intuitively conscious of a yielding to his appeal, and
he was not slow to follow it up.
"That's th' good la-ad, Jimmie," he said, coaxingly. "Ye knows how tight
I keeps me mouth shut; an' phwat hits ye or Misther Robert hits me."
"Well," James replied, indulgently, blowing another cloud of
smoke--"'tis his wife that it's all about."
"His wife!" the old man repeated, surprised and excited--"about Mrs.
Gorham, d'ye say?"
"That is--provided she is his wife. There is them that says she ain't."
"Who says she ain't?" Riley almost shouted the words as he rose
excitedly to his feet. "Who says she ain't? By God, I'll kill th' man
phwat says that!"
"Slowly, slowly," James answered, soothingly, thoroughly enjoying his
father's amazement and excitement. "That's for them to settle as knows
how, but it's to me Mr. Gorham must look to help him out. Now, do you
understand where I come in?"
"Ah, Jimmie, ye're killin' me wid yer slowness. Out wid it, la-ad! What
do they say, an' who done phwat? Out wid it!"
"The divorce was crooked, so they say; and now her first husband is here
in New York and wants her back."
"But it ain't true, Jimmie--it ain't true; tell me that."
"I don't know yet myself," James admitted; "but there's a few things I
do know what ought to be worth the coin to Mr. Gorham."
"An' ye're goin' ter give 'em ter him?"
"Perhaps," James replied, indifferently--"if he thinks they're worth
what I do."
"But Misther Robert has paid ye already, hasn't he? Hasn't these new
prosperity things come out iv Misther Robert's pay?"
"He's got what he's paid for," James asserted. "These new tips come to
me while I was workin' on my own account. They're worth the coin to
either side."
"That's phwat ye meant when ye said there was more prosperity comin'?"
"Sure."
"An' if Misther Robert don't pay ye ye'er price, ye'll sell 'em ter th'
other feller who says his wife ain't his wife?"
"Business is business," James replied, sagely.
The elder Riley's lips came close together as he rose quietly yet
quickly from his chair. In a moment more he had seized James by the
collar, and with a sudden, violent action, made easier by the recumbent
attitude, deposited the younger man in a heap on the floor. Too
surprised by the unexpectedness of the attack, James made no defence,
and before he could even attempt to rise from his humiliating position
the old man stood over him, shaking his fist in his face.
"Ye damn dirty spalpeen, lie there f'r a time, will ye? I'll break ivery
bone in ye'er body if ye even make a move ter git up. Do ye think I've
spint me life f'r nothin' better than ter rear up a blackmailer an' th'
like iv ye? Do ye think me an' th' ol' woman, God rist her soul, slaved
th' flesh off our bones f'r nothin' better than ter raise a brat who'd
sell th' man whose hand was always out f'r me an' mine? It's ye'er
fa-ather talkin' ter ye now, James Riley, an' it's ye'er fa-ather who's
goin' ter scrape off some iv thim fine airs thim Tammany thieves an'
blacklegs has learned ye. It's manny th' time I've licked ye good,
Jimmie, when ye was a la-ad, an' it's agin I'll do it if I has ter, ter
learn ye honesty. Now git up an' set in that chair an' do phwat I tell
ye, if ye know phwat's best f'r ye."
James Riley rose from the floor and sat obediently in the chair his
father indicated. Had he chosen to assert his strength, the elder man
would have been but a child in opposition; but the fire which flashed
from those angry eyes, and the tone in which his father's scathing
castigation was administered, took him back twenty years when the same
angry flash and the same convincing tones were backed up by a physical
force which made them worthy of respect. James Riley was again the
offending boy, and his father--stern, severe, unrelenting in his own
ideas of right and wrong--held him in a grip he could not break.
"Set there, damn ye," the elder Riley repeated, breathing hard from
excitement and from the unusual exertion. "Now tell me phwat ye found
out when ye was workin' on ye'er own account."
James tried desperately to summon courage enough to oppose his father's
will, but to no avail.
"I've mixed a bit with Buckner--the first husband--that's all."
"An' phwat did ye find out?" Riley demanded, sternly.
James hesitated.
"Out wid it!" the old man shouted.
"He's been married again since."
"Ah, ha! th' feller phwat says me Misther Robert's wife ain't his wife,
'cause th' divorce warn't reg'lar, has been married agin, has he?"
Riley's good-humor began to return with this cheerful bit of
information. "Then that makes him a liar or a Mormon--take ye'er choice.
Which do ye think it is, Jimmie?"
"Liar," James replied, sententiously.
"Right ye are, Jimmie! Right ye are! Liar it is, tho' 'twud serve him
right ter be th' other. An' where's his second wife?"
"That's what's a-worryin' him; he don't know."
"Ah, ha!" Riley chuckled, "why shouldn't it? It's bad enough when th'
wife don't know where ye are, but when ye don't know where th' wife is
an' her apt ter turn up anny minnit! Ah, let him worry; it's good f'r
him. What else did ye find out by ye'er mixin's?"
"That's all, so far, but I can get more. Buckner likes me."
The old man's passing amusement was gone, and his indignation returned
with full force.
"P'r'aps ye can git th' likin's iv a man who says me Misther Robert's
wife ain't his wife, but 'twill be healthier f'r ye if ye gits th'
likin's iv Misther Robert himself. Now, ye'll go ter him to-morrer
mornin'--d'ye mind--an' ye'll tell him all ye've tol' me, an' there
won't be no price asked, an' ye'll keep on findin' out all ye can f'r
Misther Robert, an' ye'll play fair, an' ye'll take phwat pay he chooses
ter give ye, an' if ye thry anny more thricks like th' dirty wan I've
just catched ye wid I'll be back ter see ye, James Riley, an' I'll break
ivery damn bone in ye'er body, James Riley. Now, good-night ter ye an'
ye'er prosperities. I'll tell Misther Robert ye'll be up ter see him at
nine o'clock to-morrer mornin'."
The old man drew himself up majestically, cast one more withering glance
on the completely humiliated James, and took his departure.
The next morning nine had not ceased striking on the clock standing on
the mantelpiece in Mr. Gorham's study when James Riley was formally and
seriously ushered by his father into these, the sacred precincts, where
none entered except by its owner's invitation; but it was a far
different James from the man who had called upon Mr. Gorham some weeks
earlier. The younger Riley's self-assurance was missing, his jaunty air
was replaced by a bearing almost timid in its gentleness, his voice had
become halty; and when Mr. Gorham first spoke to him he started
suddenly, turning his face toward his questioner, and showing
apprehension in every feature.
Gorham noticed the change, and, being ignorant of the tragic events of
the evening before, was frankly surprised.
"Have you been ill, James?" he inquired, quietly.
"Oh, no, sir--I'm feeling very well, I thank you, sir," James answered
in a quick, frightened voice.
"I am glad to hear it," Gorham answered, but his tone suggested
incredulity.
"I have been some worrited lately," James added, by way of explanation.
"I s'pose you knows how that tells on a feller, sir."
"Yes, James," Gorham agreed. "It comes to all of us sooner or later.
Now tell me what is the important information which your father promised
me you would bring with you ?"
"Hasn't he told you, sir?"
"Not a word, James. Has it to do with the matter you have been working
on for me, or is it some trouble of your own which has caused the worry
you speak of?"
James was seated on the edge of his chair with his thin hands folded and
resting on his knees. His eyes roved about the room, looking anywhere
except into Mr. Gorham's face. As a matter of fact, he had in reality
passed through some "worrited" times since his father's call, and his
humiliation was complete. It was a relief to him to know that his father
had not discussed the matter with Mr. Gorham, but even that consolation
was not equal to the task of restoring him to his former equinimity.
"Well," interrogated Mr. Gorham, helpfully, striving to assist him in
what was evidently a serious undertaking.
"You see, sir," James began, "there's another Mrs. Buckner."
"What!" cried Gorham, genuinely surprised and rising from his chair.
"Buckner has been married again, you say?"
"That's what I understand, sir; leastwise that's what he told me. He was
drunk when he said it, and perhaps that's why he did say it; but I
believe it's true."
James had the satisfaction of witnessing a sight which few men had seen
during Mr. Gorham's lifetime--he was visibly excited, and, what was
stranger still, he made no effort to conceal his emotion.
"If there is anything in what you say, James, this information is the
most cheering piece of news which I have heard for many a day. Now tell
me all you know about it."
In another half-hour James Riley was painfully making his way to the
nearest subway station, giving no indication, either in his face or in
his movements, as to whether the result of his mission had turned out
more or less favorably, in its financial probabilities, than would have
been the case had he followed his original intentions. He had found his
father waiting for him in the front hall after he came down-stairs from
Mr. Gorham's library, but the only remark the old man vouchsafed was,
"Have ye done phwat I told ye, Jimmie?" Then the door swung upon its
hinges while the younger man went out, leaving his father chuckling
softly.
"Jimmie's th' fine la-ad, afther all," Riley muttered quietly to
himself. "He has th' temptations same as we all has, but he seen his
duty when his fa-ather shown it ter him." Then the old man became
reflective. "It's sorry I'd 'a' been ter have had ter mess Jimmie all
up," he continued--"but I'd 'a' done it. It's lucky f'r him he didn't
show fight; it's lucky f'r him, I'm tellin' ye."
In the mean time Gorham had sought Eleanor and Alice, and told them the
news which had come to him so unexpectedly. The problem now was to find
the second Mrs. Buckner, and as quickly as possible. James had explained
to Mr. Gorham that even Buckner himself did not know where the woman
was. He had lived in several cities during the last few years. His wife
might have died or moved away; but as Gorham pointed out in answer to
the doubts Eleanor and his daughter expressed, if it was a fact, there
must be a way to find conclusive evidence.
"I cannot delay a moment," Gorham at length declared. "It will take some
time at best to run this matter down, and with the certainty so near at
hand to prove our fears groundless, I am all impatience to take steps
toward securing the actual evidence itself. It is imperative that I
leave for Chicago to-morrow, and I must get this investigation under way
before then."
Eleanor and Alice sat for some moments in silence after Gorham left the
house. The girl watched the older woman, waiting for her to speak. The
anxious lines were still in Eleanor's face; her pallor remained, and
Alice wondered that she gave no evidence of relief from the
nerve-racking strain which she had endured, in the face of so hopeful a
turn in the whole situation. Still more, to the girl's surprise, Eleanor
rose abruptly from beside her, and walked irresolutely to the window.
"I cannot, I cannot," she cried at last, all the pent-up feeling of the
last few moments finding expression in these brief words. Alice was
quickly beside her.
"You cannot do what, dear?" she asked, sympathetically.
"I cannot tell him."
"Haven't you told him yet?" Alice asked, a shade of reproach showing in
her voice.
Eleanor turned from the window and passed her arm around Alice's waist.
"I have tried a hundred times. The few opportunities when I might have
done so naturally found me too weak; at other times it has been
impossible. Robert is so sweet and tender with me these days that the
mere possibility of having him blame me is the most terrifying thought
which I can have."
"It ought not to be so hard now, dear. Everything is going to be
straightened out. Already the burden is a good deal lighter than before
because now we have something tangible to work upon. This leaves you
simply the one thing to think about, and of course father will believe
everything you tell him."
Eleanor looked at Alice irresolutely. "It isn't in the nature of man to
be so credulous--I doubt if I would believe the story myself if I heard
any one else tell it. Under these circumstances, how can I expect more
from your father?"
"Because it is--father," the girl replied, feelingly "--because he's the
grandest, noblest, truest man who ever lived; because he loves you,
Eleanor; and because he believes in you as he believes in himself."
"If I did not know of this belief in me, Alice dear, and was not so
jealous of it, perhaps I should not fear to bring the matter to the
test. But, of course, you are right. He must know the whole story, and
he must know it from me. I only hope that the opportunity may offer
itself naturally for me to tell him, under such conditions as will make
it appear less incredible than it does just now."
"It doesn't seem to me that that ought to enter into it at all," Alice
continued, quietly. "Even if you knew that it would destroy this belief,
you could do nothing else than tell him, could you, Eleanor? There could
be nothing good come from anything kept from father."
Eleanor felt reproached by the faith which the girl exhibited. "I have
done it to spare him," she urged. "If there had been anything in the
experience of which I need feel ashamed, I should have felt it
necessary to let him know it before we were married. I thought it all
over then, and decided it was wiser not to bring the matter up. It was
weak and cowardly not to do it, I can see that now, but at the time I
thought I was acting for the best."
"If father were to tell you something about his life which seemed
incredible, and which might be misinterpreted into something
dishonorable to him, would you believe his version of it?"
"Implicitly," Eleanor replied, with much feeling.
"Then do you think he is less loving or less tender or has less faith
than you, Eleanor?"
"Not that, dear," Eleanor replied; "but he is a man, and a man's
standpoint is essentially different from a woman's."
"I never think of him as a man," the girl replied, simply. "He is so far
above and beyond any man I have ever known that I have never thought of
him as only that."