PERHAPS it showed lack of proper feeling, but Oakley managed to sleep
off a good deal of his emotional stress, and when he left his hotel the
next morning he was quite himself again.
His attitude towards the world was the decently cheerful one of the
man who is earning a good salary, and whose personal cares are fax from
being numerous or pressing. He was still capable of looking out for
Cornish's interests, and his own, too, if the need arose.
He went down to the office alert and vigorous. As he strode along he
nodded and smiled at the people he met on the street. If the odium of
his father's crime was to attach itself to him it should be without his
help. Antioch might count him callous if it liked, but it must not think
him weak.
His first official act was to go for Kerr, who was unusually
cantankerous, and he gave that frigid gentleman a scare which lasted
him for the better part of a week. For Kerr, who had convinced himself
overnight that Oakley must resign, saw himself having full swing with
the Huckleberry, and was disposed to treat his superior with airy
indifference. He had objected to hunting up an old order-book Dan wished
to see, on the score that he was too busy, whereat, as Holt expressed
it, the latter “jumped on him with both feet.” His second official act
was to serve formal notice on Branyon that he was dismissed from the
shops, the master-mechanic's dismissal not having been accepted as
final, for Branyon had turned up that morning with a black eye as if to
go to work. He was even harsh with Miss Walton, and took exception
to her spelling of a typewritten letter, which he was sending off to
Cornish in London.
He also inspected every department in the shops, and was glad of an
excuse he discovered to reprimand Joe Stokes, who was stock-keeper in
the carpenter's room, for the slovenly manner in which the stock was
handled. Then he returned to the office, and as a matter of discipline
kept Kerr busy all the rest of the morning hauling dusty order-books
from a dark closet. He felt that if excitement was what was wanted he
was the one to furnish it. He had been too easy.
He even read Clarence, whom he had long since given up as hopeless, a
moving lecture on the sin of idleness, and that astonished youth, who
had fancied himself proof against criticism, actually searched for
things to do, so impressed and startled was he by the manager's
earnestness, and so fearful was he lest he should lose his place. If
that happened, he knew his father would send him to school, and he
almost preferred work, so he flew around, was under everybody's feet and
in everybody's way, and when Oakley left the office at half-past two,
Holt forcibly ejected him, after telling him he was a first-class
nuisance, and that if he Stuck his nose inside the door again he'd skin
him.
Feeling deeply his unpopularity, Clarence withdrew to the yards, where
he sought out Dutch Pete With tears in his eyes he begged the yard boss
to find some task for him, it made no difference what, just so it was
work; but Dutch Pete didn't want to be bothered, and sent him away with
what Clarence felt to be a superfluity of bad words.
Naturally the office force gave a deep sigh of satisfaction when Oakley
closed his desk and announced that he was going up-town and would not
return. Miss Walton confided to Kerr that she just hoped he would never
come back.
It was a little before three o'clock when Dan presented himself at the
Emorys'. The maid who answered his ring ushered him into the parlor
with marked trepidation. She was a timid soul. Then she swished from the
room, but returned almost immediately to say that Miss Emory would be
down in a moment.
“I wonder what's troubling her,” muttered Oakley, with some
exasperation. “You'd think she expected me to take her head off.”
He guessed that, like her betters, she was enjoying to the limit the
sensation of which he was the innocent victim.
When Constance entered the room, he advanced a little uncertainly.
She extended her hand quite cordially, however. There was no trace of
embarrassment or constraint in her manner.
As he took her hand, Dan said, simply, going straight to the purpose of
his call: “I have thought a good deal over what I want to tell you, Miss
Emory.” Miss Emory instantly took the alarm, and was on the defensive.
She enveloped herself in that species of inscrutable feminine reserve
men find so difficult to penetrate. She could not imagine what he had
to tell her that was so pressing. He was certainly very curious and
unconventional. There was one thing she feared he might want to tell her
which she was firmly determined not to hear.
Oakley drew forward a chair.
“Won't you sit down?” he asked, gravely.
“Thank you, yes.” It was all so formal they both smiled.
Dan stood with his back to the fire-place, now filled with ferns, and
rested an elbow on the mantel. There was an awkward pause. At last he
said, slowly:
“It seems I've been the subject of a lot of talk during the last two
days, and I have been saddled with a matter for which I am in no way
responsible, though it appears to reflect on me quite as much as if I
were.”
“Really, Mr. Oakley”--began Constance, scenting danger ahead. But her
visitor was in no mood to temporize.
“One moment, please,” he said, hastily. “You have heard the story from
Mr. Ryder.”
“I have heard it from others as well.”
“It has influenced you--”
“No, I won't say that,” defiantly. She was not accustomed to being
catechised.
“At least it has caused you to seriously doubt the wisdom of an
acquaintance,” blurted Oakley. “You are very unfair,” rising with latent
anger.
“You will greatly oblige me by sitting down again.”
And Constance, astonished beyond measure at his tone of command, sank
back into her chair with a little smothered gasp of surprise. No one had
ever ventured to speak to her like that before. It was a new experience.
“We've got to finish this, you know,” explained Dan, with one of his
frankest smiles, and there was a genial simplicity about his smile which
was very attractive. Constance, however, was not to be propitiated, but
she kept her seat. She was apprehensive lest Oakley would do something
more startling and novel if she attempted to cut short the interview.
She stole a glance at him from under her long lashes. He was studying
the carpet, apparently quite lost to the enormity of his conduct. “You
have heard their side of the story, Miss Emory. I want you to hear
mine. It's only fair, isn't it? You have heard that my father is an
ex-convict?”
“Yes,” with a tinge of regret.
“That he is a murderer?” plunging ahead mercilessly.
“Yes.”
“And this is influencing you?”
“I suppose it is,” helplessly. “It would naturally. It was a great shock
to us all.”
“Yes,” agreed Dan, “I can understand, I think, just how you must look at
it.”
“We are very, very sorry for you, Mr. Oakley. I want to explain my
manner last night. The whole situation was so excessively awkward. I am
sure you must have felt it.”
“I did,” shortly.
“Oh, dear, I hope you didn't think me unkind!”
“No.” Then he added, a trifle wearily, “It's taken me all this time to
realize my position. I suppose I owe you some sort of an apology. You
must have thought me fearfully thick-skinned.” He hoped she would say
no, but he was disappointed. Her conscience had been troubling her, and
she was perfectly willing to share her remorse with him, since he was
so ready to assume a part of it. She was as conventional as extreme
respectability could make her, but she had never liked Oakley half so
well. She admired his courage. He didn't whine. His very stupidity was
in its way admirable, but it was certainly too bad he could not see just
how impossible he was under the circumstances.
Dan raised his eyes to hers. “Miss Emory, the only time I remember to
have seen my father until he came here a few weeks ago was through the
grating of his cell door. My mother took me there as a little boy. When
she died I came West, where no one knew me. I had already learned that,
because of him, I was somehow judged and condemned, too. It has always
been hanging over me. I have always feared exposure. I suppose I can
hush it up after a while, but there will always be some one to tell it
to whoever will listen. It is no longer a secret.”
“Was it fair to your friends, Mr. Oakley, that it was a secret?”
“I can't see what business it was of theirs. It's nothing I have done,
and, anyhow, I have never had any friends until now I cared especially
about.”
“Oh!” and Miss Emory lowered her eyes. So long as he was merely
determined and stupid he was safe, but should he become sentimental it
might be embarrassing for them both.
“You have seen my father. Do you think from what you can judge from
appearances that he would kill a man in cold blood? It was only after
years of insult that it came to that, and then the other man was the
aggressor. What my father did he did in self-defence, but I am pretty
sure you were not told this.”
He was swayed by a sense of duty towards his father, and a desire to
vindicate him--he was so passive and enduring. The intimacy of their
relation had begotten warmth and sympathy. They had been drawn nearer
and nearer each other. The clannishness of his blood and race asserted
itself. It was a point of honor with him to stand up for his friends,
and to stand up for his father most of all. Could he, he would have
ground his heel into Ryder's face for his part in circulating the
garbled version of the old convict's history. Some one should suffer as
he had been made to suffer.
“Of course, Mr. Ryder did not know what you have told me,” Constance
said, hastily. She could not have told why, but she had the uneasy
feeling that Griff required a champion, that he was responsible. “Then
you did hear it from Mr. Ryder?”
She did not answer, and Oakley, taking her silence for assent,
continued: “I don't suppose it was told you either that he was pardoned
because of an act of conspicuous heroism, that, at the risk of his own
life, he saved the lives of several nurses and patients in the hospital
ward of the prison where he was confined.” He looked inquiringly at
Constance, but she was still silent. “Miss Emory, my father came to
me to all intents an absolute stranger. Why, I even feared him, for
I didn't know the kind of man he was, but I have come to have a great
affection and regard for him. I respect him, too, most thoroughly. There
is not an hour of the day when the remembrance of his crime is not with
him. Don't you think it cowardly that it should have been ventilated
simply to hurt me, when it must inevitably hurt him so much more? He
has quit work in the shops, and he is determined to leave Antioch. I may
find him gone when I return to the hotel.”
“And you blame Mr. Ryder for this?”
“I do. It's part of the debt we'll settle some day.”
“Then you are unjust. It was Mr. Kenyon. His cousin is warden of the
prison. He saw your father there and remembered him.”
“And told Mr. Ryder,” with a contemptuous twist of the lips.
“There were others present at the time. They were not alone.”
“But Mr. Ryder furnished the men with the facts.”
“How do you know?” And once more her tone was one of defiance and
defence.
“I have been told so, and I have every reason to believe I was correctly
informed. Why, don't you admit that it was a cowardly piece of business
to strike at me over my father's shoulder?” demanded Oakley, with
palpable exasperation. The narrowness of her nature and her evasions
galled him. Why didn't she show a little generous feeling. He expected
she would be angry at his words and manner. On the contrary, she
replied:
“I am not defending Mr. Ryder, as you seem to think, but I do not
believe in condemning any one as you would condemn him--unheard.”
She was unduly conscious, perhaps, that sound morality was on her side
in this.
“Let us leave him out of it. After all, it is no odds who told. The harm
is done.”
“No, I shall ask Griff.”
Dan smiled, doubtfully. “That will settle it, if you believe what he
tells you.”
“His denial will be quite sufficient for me, Mr. Oakley,” with chilly
politeness.
There was a long pause, during which Dan looked at the carpet, and
Miss Emory at nothing in particular. He realized how completely he
had separated himself from the rest of the world in her eyes. The
hopelessness of his love goaded him on. He turned to her with sudden
gentleness and said, penitently: “Won't you forgive me?”
“I have nothing to forgive, Mr. Oakley,” with lofty self-denial, and
again Dan smiled doubtfully. Her saying so did not mean all it should
have meant to him.
He swept his hand across his face with a troubled gesture. “I don't know
what to do,” he observed, ruefully. “The turf seems knocked from under
my feet.”
“It must have been a dreadful ordeal to pass through alone,” she
said. “We are so distressed for your sake.” And she seemed so keenly
sympathetic that Dan's heart gave a great bound in his breast. He put
aside his mounting bitterness against her.
“I don't know why I came to see you to-day. I just wanted to, and so I
came. I don't want to force a friendship.”
Miss Emory murmured that no excuse was necessary.
“I am not too sure of that. I must appear bent on exhibiting myself and
my woes, but I can't go into retirement, and I can't let people see I'm
hurt.”
His face took on a strong resolve. He couldn't go without telling her he
loved her. His courage was suddenly riotous.
“Once, not long ago, I dared to believe I might level the differences
between us. I recognized what they were, but now it is hopeless. There
are some things a man can't overcome, no matter how hard he tries, and
I suppose being the son of a murderer is one of these.” He paused,
and, raising his eyes from the carpet, glanced at her, but her face was
averted. He went on, desperately: “It's quite hopeless, but I have dared
to hope, and I wanted you to know. I hate to leave things unfinished.”
There was a long silence, then Miss Emory said, softly:
“I am so sorry.”
“Which means you've never cared for me,” dryly.
But she did not answer him. She was wondering how she would have felt
had the confession come forty-eight hours earlier.
“I suppose I've been quite weak and foolish,” said Dan.
She looked into his face with a slow smile.
“Why do you say that? Is it weak and foolish to care for some one?”
“Wasn't it?” with suddenly kindled hope, for he found it hard to give
her up.
Miss Emory drew herself together with a sigh.
“I never thought of this,” she said, which was hardly true; she had
thought of it many times.
“No,” admitted Dan, innocently enough, for her lightest word had become
gospel to him, such was his love and reverence. “You couldn't know.”
Poor Oakley, his telling of it was the smallest part of the knowledge.
“I think I see now, perfectly, how great a difference this affair of my
father's must make. It sort of cuts me off from everything.”
“It is very tragic. I wish you hadn't told me just now.” Her lips
trembled pathetically, and there were tears in her eyes.
“I've wanted to tell you for a long time.”
“I didn't know.”
“Of course you couldn't know,” he repeated; then he plunged ahead
recklessly, for he found there was a curious satisfaction in telling her
of his love, hopeless as it was.
“It has been most serious and sacred to me. I shall never forget
you--never. It has helped me in so many ways just to know you. It has
changed so many of my ideals. I can't be grateful enough.”
Miss Emory approved his attitude. It was as it should be. She was sorry
for him. She admired his dignity and repression. It made him seem so
strong and purposeful.
“You will find your happiness some day, Mr. Oakley. You will find
some one more worthy than I.” She knew he would be insensible to the
triteness of her remark.
“No,” generously, “that couldn't be. I'll not find any one. I'll not
look.”
“Oh, but you will.”
Already, with the selfishness of her sex, and a selfishness which was
greater than that of her sex, she was regretting that she had allowed
him to step so easily into the position of a rejected lover.
“I don't want you to think it is going to ruin my life,” he said,
quietly, “or anything of that sort.”
An appeal to her pity seemed weak and contemptible.
“I have striven to win what I can't have, what is not for me, and I am
satisfied to have made the effort.”
Miss Emory bit her lip. He was going to put her out of his life
entirely. It was ended, and he would do his best to forget her with what
speed he might, for he loved her, and was too generous to wish her
to suffer. This generosity, needless to say, was too altruistic for
Constance to fully appreciate its beauties. Indeed, she did not regard
it as generosity at all. She resented it. She realized that probably she
would not see him again; at least the meeting would not be of his making
or choosing. There was to be no sentimental aftermath. He was preparing
to go, like the sensible fellow he was, for good and all, and she
rebelled against the decree. It seemed brutal and harsh. She was angry,
hurt, and offended. Perhaps her conscience was troubling her, too. She
knew she was mean and petty.
“I don't think it could have been very serious to you, Mr. Oakley,” she
murmured, gazing abstractedly from the window.
“I don't know why you think that. I can't say any more than I have said.
It includes all.” She wanted to tell him he gave up too easily.
“At any rate, we are friends,” he added.
“Are you going?” she cried, with a ring of real longing and regret in
her voice, lifted out of herself for the moment at the thought of losing
him.
Dan nodded, and a look of pain came into his face.
“Yes, I am going.”
“But you are not going to leave Antioch?”
“Oh, no!”
And Miss Emory felt a sense of relief. She rose from her chair. “Then I
shall see you again?”
“Probably,” smiling. “We couldn't well avoid seeing each other in a
place the size of this.”
He held out his hand frankly.
“And I sha'n't see you here any more?” she asked, softly.
“I guess not,” a little roughly. The bitterness of his loss stung him.
He felt something was wrong somewhere. He wondered, too, if she had
been quite fair to him, if her ability to guard herself was entirely
commendable, after all. He knew, in the end, his only memory of her
would be that she was beautiful. He would carry this memory and a
haunting sense of incompleteness with him wherever he went.
She placed her hand in his and looked up into his face with troubled,
serious eyes.
“Good-bye.” It was almost a whisper.
Dan crossed the room to the door and flung it open. For an instant he
wavered on the threshold, but a moment later he was striding down the
street, with his hat jammed needlessly low over his ears, and his hands
thrust deep in his trousers pockets.
At the window, Constance, with a white, scared face, was watching him
from between the parted curtains. She hoped he would look back, but he
never once turned his head.